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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  origir.a! 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 

a   Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 

□   Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommagde 

□   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pellicul^e 

I I   Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I   Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

Q   Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noir 

ry\   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 


que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 
D 


a 


D 


Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  Tiargin  /  La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de 
I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int^rieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajoutees  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  6t6  film6es. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  supplementaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm6  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-6tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m6tho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

I I   Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

W  I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag6es 

□   Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaur^s  et/ou  pellicul^es 

0  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  dteolor^es,  tachet^es  ou  piques 

I      I   Pages  detached  /  Pages  d6tach6es 

I  \/|   Showthrough  /  Transparence 

□   Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 

□   Includes  supplementary  mate  ial  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

r/f  Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 

—  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  6t6  film6es  k  nouveau  de  faf on  k 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

I      I   Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 

—  discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
film6es  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  item  ia  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  rWuction  indiqus  cl-dessout. 


; 

lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

/ 

I 
1 

12x 

16x 

20x 

24x 

28x 

32x 

The  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  bMn  raproducad  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 


L'axampiaira  filmA  fut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
gAn«roaiti  da: 


Bishop's  University. 
Lennox vi 1 1e 

Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poMibIa  considaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacificationa. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covars  ara  flimad 
beginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impraa- 
sion,  or  tha  back  coveir  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copias  ara  fiimad  beginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  impras- 
sion,  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impression. 


Tha  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^*>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Bishop's  University, 
Lennox vi 1 le 

Les  images  suiventes  ont  ttt  reproduites  avac  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
da  la  natteti  da  Taxemplaire  filmi,  et  en 
eonformit*  avac  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Lee  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  an 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  filmte  en  commen9ant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en.terminant  soit  par  la 
darni*re  paga  qui  comporta  una  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  las  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film«s  en  commen9ant  par  la 
premidire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
derniAre  imege  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  —^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symboie  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  boRom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartas,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  itre 
filmte  k  des  taux  de  rMuction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  itre 
raproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film*  i  partir 
da  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  k  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imeges  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  le  mithode. 


1  2  3 


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5 

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(716)   2S8   -  5989  -  Fq. 


This  is  the  crown  and  triumph  of  the  artist, 
not  merely  to  convince  but  to  enchant. 

R.   L.   STEVENSON 


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Il  lo'i 


The 

Eiichantment  of  Art 

As  Part  of  the  Enchantment 
of  Experience 

Essays 
By 

Duncan  Phillips 

With  Frontispiece  in  Colour 
And    Eight    Reproductions 


New  York:  John  Lane  Company 
London:  John  Lane,  The  Bodley  Head 
Toronto:  Bell  y  Cockburn  :: MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  IQI4 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


TBE-PLIUPTON'PRESI 
NO«WOOD'HASS'U'S-A 


a 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


NOTE 

THE  author  thanks  the  Editors  oj  The  International 
Studio  —  Scribner's  Magazine  —  The  Yale  Review, 
and  Art  and  Progress,  for  their  permission  to 
reprint  the  essays  which  first  appeared  in  their 
pages. 


PREFACE 


This  is  a  book  of  frankly  personal  appreciations.  Ap- 
parently it  is  about  art.  Actually  it  is  about  my 
own  life,  some  of  its  finer  moments  when  the  en- 
joyment of  artistic  beauty  made  it  wonderfully  well 
worth  while.  Art  is  a  personal  matter  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  from  the  personal  mood  that  precedes 
an  original  creation  to  the  last  word  of  personal 
opinion  passed  in  comment  upon  it.  Perhaps  no 
act  of  mind  is  more  personal  than  criticism.  And 
this  is  especially  true  when  art  is  concerned,  for  no 
subject  is  more  controversial. 

Some  an  books  are  historical.  Others  are  technical. 
This  one  only  claims  to  be  personal— and  persua- 
sive. Without  apologies  for  recommending  my 
own  tastes  and  opinions  I  have  sought  to  bring  other 
men  and  women  to  my  way  of  thinking,  about  truth 
and  beauty,  about  life  and  art.  Briefly,  the  pur- 
pose of  this  book  is  the  purpose  of  art  itself;  to 
stimulate  the  appreciation  of  life  and  to  intensify 
the  joy  of  living.  If  I  have  writUn  chiefly  about 
painting  and  books,  and  only  English  books  at  that, 
it  is  because  I  had  to  draw  the  line  somewhere. 


8  PREFACE 

But  the  Enchantment  of  Art  is  a  subject  as  big 

as  life  and  as  enduring.    Even  if  we  are  to  live 

forever  I  am  very  sure  that  we  cannot  exhaust  its 

possibilities. 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  the  invaluable  assistance  of  my 

friend,  W.  H.  deB.  Nelson^  in  the  preparation  of 

this  book. 

DUNCAN  PHILLIPS 
New  York 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   I 

I.  The  Impressionistic  Point  of  View    ....  15 
II.  What    Impressionism    in    Painting    Really 

Means 2^ 

III.  Velasquez  — "The  Enchanter  of  Realism".  38 

IV.  Revolutions  and  Reactions  in  Painting  .   .  51 
V.  NATioNALmr  in  Pictures 70 

VI,  The  City  in  Painting  and  Etching    ....  97 

VII.  Art  for  the  Sake  of  Truth — and  Beauty  .  in 

VIII.  Impressionism  in  Prose 130 

IX.  Impressionism  in  Poetry 157 

BOOK  II 

X.  The  Decorative  Imagination igi 

XI.  The  Spirit  of  Romantic  Comedy 206 

XII.  Romantic  Comedy  in  Early  Italian  Painting  223 

XIII.  Giorgione 242 

XIV.  Tintoretto 261 

XV.  Shakespearun  Beauty     268 

XVI.  Watteau   and   His   Influence    on   Modern 

Poetry     288 

XVII.  Impressionism  and  the  Romantic  Spirit    .   .  300 


1 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FtTE  Champ£tre  (in  colours) Frontispiece 

By  Adolphe  Moniicelli.    G>llecrion  of  hi*  Honour 
Judge  William  Evans,  London 
Ploughing Facing  page    23 

By  RinS  Minard.    Marseilles  Savings  Bank 
MOENIPPUS 50 

By  Velasquez.    The  Prado  Gallery,  Madrid 
Moonlight,  Tarpon  Springs 92 

By  George  Inness.    Collection  of  Mr.  D.  C.  Phillips, 
Washington,  D.  C. 
Supper  at  Emm^us 118 

By  Rembrandt.    The  Louvre,  Paris 
Monument  of  Cangrande 220 

By  an  Unknown  Sculptor.     Verona 
A  Concert 254 

By  Giorgione.     Pitti  Palace,  Florence 
Doctor  Parma 272 

By  Titian.    Imperial  Gallery,  Vienna 

The  Goat-Herd 320 

By  Corot.    The  Louvre,  Paris 


We're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see. 


Art  was  given  for  that. 

ROBERT  BROWNING — "FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI' 


Book  I 


The  Enchantment  of  Art 


THE  IMPRESSIONISTIC   POINT  OF  VIEW 

/  lovt  all  beauteous  things, 
I  seek  and  adore  them; 
God  hath  no  better  praise. 
And  man  in  his  hasty  days. 
Is  honoured  for  them. 

I  too  will  something  make, 
And  joy  1*    hf  making; 
Although  tf    lorroto  it  seem 
Like  the  en^pty  words  of  a  dream 
Remembered  on  waking. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES 

ART  I  suppose  is  all  very  well  for  those 
who  like  it,"  concedes  the  scoffing 
materialist,  "but  what  is  the  use  and 
what  is  the  excuse  for  art  criticism? 
What  do  you  mean,  to  begin  with,  by  the  words 
art  and  beauty?" 

Well,  let  us  be  humble  about  language  and  con- 
sider what  we  do  mean  by  these  words  art  and 
beauty.  Even  in  the  haziest  of  our  human  con- 
cepticis  art  is  usually  associated  with  the  idea  of 
beauty,  and  beauty  with  the  acknowledgment  of 
those  pleasures  in  our  lives,  pleasures  partly 
sensuous,  partly  spiritual,  which  have  lifted  us  in 


i6        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

a  sort  of  ardour  of  appreciation  out  of  ourselves,  at 
least  for  moments.  i3ut  art  we  know  is  more 
than  mere  beauty  in  the  abstract.  Art  means 
not  necessarily  the  doing  of  beautiful  things 
tut  the  doing  of  things  beautifully.  Much  work 
however  that  is  beautifully  done  is  not  art 
but  just  skilled  labour.  The  beauty  that  consti- 
tutes art  means  much  more  than  mere  creation, 
however  successful,  for  a  creation  only  becomes  a 
work  of  art  when  it  represents  a  genuine  emotion 
on  the  part  of  its  creator  and  is  so  conceived  and 
so  expressed  as  to  communicate  that  genuine 
emotion  to  others.  The  craftsman  turns  out  a 
beautifully  made  chair  in  accordance  with  a  given 
pattern,  but  the  thing  has  been  done  rather  for 
the  sake  of  the  thing  than  for  the  sake  of  its 
beauty.  It  is  a  good  job,  but  no  more  a  work  of 
art  than  the  novel  or  play  or  picture  that  is 
made  in  the  same  impersonal  and  utilitarian  way. 
Of  course,  if  beauty  were  a  fixed  object  that 
could  be  known  and  explored  and  described  like  a 
mountain,  then  we  could  all  be  artists.  But 
frankly,  beauty  cannot  be  reduced  to  any  given 
formula,  nor  can  it  possibly  be  defined  in  words. 
It  is  not  a  matter  of  facts  at  all  but  of  concrete 
emotional  perceptions  often  produced  by  sheer 
physical  sensations.  In  dreams  we  are  at  times 
conscious  of  a  strange  glamour  that  seems  wholly 
unrelated  to  our  experience,  a  veritable  chaos  of 
jumbled  thoughts,  forgotten  images  of  the  past, 
unspoken  hopes  and  fears  for  the  future,  all  in  a 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    17 
setting  that  is  the  wildest  of  creative  imagination. 
Of  such  personal  and  fantastically  insubstantial 
dream-stuff  is  the  mystery  of  life  and  its  offspring 
the  mystery  of  beauty.     We  can  no  more  make 
all  people  appreciate  the  same  beauty  than  we 
can    make    all    people    dream    the    same    dream. 
Beauty  is  as  vague  and  various  and  variable  as 
human  personality  itself.     Emphatically  then  we 
cannot  lay  down  laws  for  art,  which  is  the  soul's 
chosen    and    trained    method    for   expressing    its 
sense  of  beauty.     But  just   as  emphatically  we 
can  and  shouid  formulate  rules  for  assisting  us  in 
the  practice  of  the  innumerable  kinds  of  artistic 
expression  demanded   by  the  innumerable  kinds 
of  human  taste. '  And  one  truth  at  least  is  true 
for  all  people  and  at  all  times.     Art,  to  be  art, 
must  be  sincere,  and  the  expression  not  merely 
of  sense,  or  sight,  or  sound,  but,  back  of  all  that, 
the  expression  of  the  individual  soul. 
^^  "But,"  shrilly  protests  the  scoffer  once  again, 
"granted   the   artist,   why  the   art   critic?"     Be- 
cause the  critic  represents  perception  and  appre- 
ciation,  without   which    there  would   be   no  art. 
First   of  all   there   must    be   pe/ception   of  that 
abundant  beauty  "in  the  rough"  which,  in  our 
large  way,  we  call  by  such  names  as  reality  and 
nature.     The  child   sees   beauty  about   him  and 
loves  It,  although  he  does  not  know  it  for  what 
It    is.     That    is    the    stage    of   pure    perception. 
Sooner  or  later   to  receptive   souls   appreciation 
comes,  like  a  miraculous  awakening  to  a  life  of 


1 8        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

new  sensations.  On  the  horizon  of  some  lives 
this  aesthetic  radiance  never  dawns,  and  they  are 
left  in  darkness,  bereft  of  one  of  the  richest  joys 
of  existence.  To  others  a  mysterious  power  is 
granted  to  express  their  sense  of  beauty,  to  be- 
come artists.  The  majority  of  us  are  without 
this  power,  although  many  of  us  are  more  truly 
artists  in  feeling  what  we  cannot  express,  than 
hosts  of  expert  craftsmen  who  glibly  express  what 
they  do  not  feel.  Feeling  is  the  soul  of  art. 
Technique  is  only  its  machinery.  It  is,  therefore, 
the  appreciation  of  liii  which  results  in  the  ex- 
pression of  art  and  to  help  us  enrich  o^:  lives  by 
the  cultivation  of  our  tastes  and  aesthetic  fac- 
ulties, that  is  ..he  exalted  purpose  of  all  art 
criticism. 

The  appreciation  of  life,  is  not  that  worth 
while?  not  life  in  the  abstract,  but  our  own  lives, 
our  own  experiences,  our  own  moods  and  emo- 
tions? Stirred  with  very  real  reverence  we  are 
constantly  exclaiming  one  to  another  —  how  won- 
derful is  our  world!  Few  are  the  scientists,  few 
also  the  moralists,  who  fail  to  impress  upon  us 
our  insignificance  in  the  stupendous  scheme  of 
things.  Of  what  avail  are  our  petty  strivings 
after  this  and  that,  our  feverish  desiie  for  we 
scarcely  know  what.  Every  poet  has  urged  us 
to  come  out  into  the  night  where  stars  that  are 
changeless  and  serene  preside  over  the  mysteries 
of  the  dark.  How  all  our  vain  philosophies  are 
shamed   beneath  those  stars!     And  how  helpless 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    19 

is  our  knowledge  and  impotent  our  power  while 
the  storm  god  has  his  way  with  us  and  the  chill 
wind  of  death  blows  wheresoever  it  wills!    Truly 
it  is  fitting  that  before  Nature's  god  we  should 
worship   and   bow  down.     But  suppose  that  we 
carry    this    reverence    to    its    logical    conclusion. 
Suppose  we  say  one  to  another  —  how  wonderful 
we  are,  you  and  I!    How  wonderful  that  we  have 
eyes  to  see  the  beauty  of  the  stars,  and  ears  to 
hear  the  terror  of  the  storm,  and  souls  which  at 
the  '-lowing  of  the  wind  of  death  are  wafted  all 
in\    ible    into    the    dark    beyond.     Suppose    we 
dwell  upon  our  common  merits  as  men,  and  our 
supreme  fitness  to  inhabit  and  inherit  the  earth. 
Suppose,  even  suppose  we    admire   our  peculiar 
merits  as  individuals,  the  features  of  our  faces 
which,  search  the  world  over,  can  never  be  found 
again;  the  particular  combination  of  opinions  and 
beliefs,  aspirations  and  passions,  tricks  of  speech 
and  habits  of  thought  which,  distinguishing  us 
for  better  or  worse  from  any  other  mortals  that 
ever  lived,  bear  witness  to  the  inscrutable  miracle 
of  personality.     By  all  means  let  us  burn  incense 
before  all  the  shrines  of  nature,  but  in  so  doing 
remember  that  we  are  but  fulfilling  one  of  the 
thousand  impulses  of  our  imperious  being;    that 
we  do  not  exist  for  nature  but  nature  for  us,  to 
give  us  something  plastic  to  mould  to  our  desire, 
something  static  for  the  beginning  and  end  of  our 
wisdom,   something  dynamic  to  charge  us  with 
the  will  to  live,  the  will  to  conquer,  something  to 


20        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

copy  with  art,  or  worship,  if  we  will,  as  religion. 
And  if  we  are  to  be  humble  let  it  be  because  we 
fall  so  far  short  of  our  possibilities  as  sentient, 
potent  beings  in  a  world  full  of  work  and  joy. 
Standing  erect  with  pride  in  the  consciousness  of 
what  we  are,  we  may  then  proceed  to  the  realiza- 
tion of  what  we  could  become,  through  serious 
purpose  to  devote  ourselves  to  self-study,  self- 
development  and  self-expression. 

The  purpose  of  life  then  is  the  expression  of 
self.     In  order  to  truly  live,  it  is  needful  to  freely 
give    one's    life,    without    pretense    and    without 
reserve.     Doubtless  the  noblest  expression  of  self 
is  self-sacrifice.    As  for  art,  it  is  but  one  of  many 
mediums  for  personal  expression.     Its  function  is 
to    discover    and    celebrate    beauty    and    truth, 
treasures  that  are  supposed  to  abound  on  every 
highway  and  byway.     But  is  it  not  the  secret  of 
modern  art  that  these  treasures  exist  not  without 
but  within  —  within  the  seeing  eye,  the  informing 
mind,  and  that  mystical  inner  life  of  sacred  sensi- 
bilities which  we  call  the  soul  ?   From  the  favoured 
few  consecrated  to  art,  offerings  of  beauty  and 
truth  are  prized  by  the  world  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  of  personal  taste  with  which  they  have 
expressed  their  sense  of  beauty  and  of  personal 
wisdom  with  which  they  have  been  enabled  to 
grasp    and    give   forth   truth.     Individuality   has 
been,  and   will  we    believe  continue    to   be,  the 
criterion  for  success  'i  modern  art.     There  is  no 
statute  book  of  truth,  no  positive  definition  of 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    21 
beauty.     Both  terms  are  relative,  things  of  our 
own  conception  and  of  our  own  making.     Unless 
we  find  m  art  personal  testimonies  and  individual 
conceptions,  beauty  and  truth  may  be  stated  with 
all  copiousness  and  care,  but  to  no  greater  effect 
than  the  repetition  of  the  names  we  give  to  them. 
Unless  we  derive  the  benefit  of  sharing  the  per- 
sonal vision  of  an  exceptionally  sensitive  pair  of 
artist-eyes,  we  much  prefer  to  do  without  art  and 
see  the  world  for  ourselves.     And  so  we  demand 
that  art  shall  be  the  more  or  less  adequately  ac- 
complished record  of  personal  impressions.    Other- 
wise  the  ablest    craftsmanship  that  the    schools 
can  teach  will  be  of  little  avail. 

That  such  opinions  as  these  can  be  to-day  so 
generally  accepted,  proves,  I  think,  that  we  are 
very  far  removed  from  the  spirit  of  antique  art, 
with  Its  mtellectual  simplifications  and  its  allegor- 
ical  abstractions.     Nevertheless,   the  formula   of 
Greek  beauty  survives,  and  is  in  fact  one  of  the 
penis   that   beset   the   adventurous   path   of  the 
young  artist  in  his  quest  of  the  personal  impres- 
sion.    The  definition  of  ideal  beauty  to  which  the 
Greek    sculptor    brought    the    inspiration    of   his 
clear   perception    and    of  his   restrained  esthetic 
ardour  can  command  no  real  response  from  our 
age.     But  the  marbles  are  in  our  museums,  the 
casts  m  our  schools,  and  they  remain  at  once  the 
inspiration   and    the   despair   of  young   idealists, 
and    .n  many  cases,  the  ruin  also  of  their  talents. 
Those  of  the  modern  men  who  try  to  realize  what 


22        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  fair  dream  of  antiquity  has  meant  to  them, 
to  give  shape  to  their  imaginative  conceptions  of 
Hellenic  charm,  have  studied  their  classic  models 
as  they  should  be  studied,  and  absorbed  all  they 
need  of  the  serene  passionless  spirit  and  the  lofty 
sense  of  style. 

In  the  Theocritan  landscapes  of  Rene  Menard 
our  eyes  delight  to  wander  with  the  shepherds 
over  the  tranquil  meadows  where  the  brown 
cattle  graze,  to  mark  the  clean-cut  outline  of  the 
dark  oak  forests  against  the  luminous  horizons, 
and  the  drift  of  cream-colored  clouds  mirrored  in 
the  pale  river-waters.  This  is  not  the  landscape 
of  Sicily  as  it  now  is,  nor  as  it  actually  was 
in  the  days  of  the  Sicilian  po°t  whose  pastorals 
it  suggests;  rather  the  landscape  of  a  modern 
painter's  dream,  representing  a  thrill  of  perhaps 
as  vital  consequence  as  any  that  a  bygone  age 
can  communicate  to  modernity.  And  yet  for 
every  artist  who,  in  this  fitting,  modern  way, 
pays  tribute  to  that  far-off  inspiration,  there  are 
a  hundred  who  rhetorically  repeat  sleek  Aphro- 
dites, achieving,  instead  of  the  ideal  beauty 
which  they  seek,  unjust  m.ockeries  of  the  Classic 
spirit  and  self-revealing  denials  of  our  complex 
modern  world.  Shall  we  ever  learn  that  the 
selection  of  grand  themes  from  ancient  lore  can- 
not endow  modern  craft  with  the  qualities  of 
Greek  an?  Tradition  should  not  be  despised. 
If  sincerely  reverenced,  it  may  powerfully  affect 
what  we  hive  to  say.     Rodin's  realistic  sculpture 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    23 

shows  the  unquestionable  influence  of  the  un- 
leashed-primitive  imagination  of  Notre  Dame 
Cathedral,  and  of  the  awe-inspiring  individuality 
of  the  prophetic  Michel  Angelo.  Nevertheless, 
as  Mr.  Brownell  insists,  Rodin  is  neither  Early 
Gothic  nor  Florentine  Renaissance.  He  is,  heart 
and  soul,  a  French  impressionist  at  the  dawn  of 
the  twentieth  century.  The  modern  art  that 
dares  not  assert  its  independence  from  Greece  and 
Italy,  and  dares  not  speak  its  own  thought  in  its 
own  way,  reveals  degeneracy.  There  is  more 
truth  and  more  real  beauty  in  a  rough  sketch 
from  nature,  executed  at  hot  haste  in  the  glow  of 
a  moment's  pleasure,  than  in  all  modern  pseudo- 
classicism  from  David  to  Cabanel.  And  I  would 
rather  see  a  clever  caricature  dashed  off  with 
enthusiasm,  and  originality  of  mind  and  eye, 
than  a  vast  space  decorated  with  inaccurate 
rei  oUections  of  Raphael's  lovely  faces,  and  the 
f?>?ng  figures  of  Tintoretto. 

It  is  entirely  natural  that  we  should  become 
impatient  and  intolerant  of  those  so-called  artists 
who  squander  rich  talent  for  the  sake  of  display 
upon  borrowed  and  laboured  themes  for  which  they 
have  the  most  tepid  interest  and  in  the  production 
of  which  not  a  hint  of  their  personal  observation 
or  emotion  can  be  detected.  Nevertheless,  n  art 
as  in  life,  there  are  men  who  try  to  express  their 
very  true  observations  and  their  very  deep  sense 
of  emotion  in  the  presence  of  beauty,  but  who  are 
either   without    the    inborn    talent    necessary   to 


t 


24        THE   ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

success,  or  else  are  unfortunate  in  lacking  that 
element  of  distinction,  whether  it  be  power  or 
charm,  which  all  artists  should  possess  who  would 
attempt  to  impress  others  with  their  impressions. 
For  the  failure  of  such  as  these  there  can  be  only 
sympathy.  Charm,  it  must  be  admitted,  plays 
the  most  important  part  in  personal  impression- 
ism, and  the  artists  of  charm,  they  are  the  lucky 
ones  of  this  earth.  Under  the  spell  of  such  men 
as  Vermeer  and  Chardin  and  Cazin,  of  Herrick 
and  Lamb  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  we  must 
admit  that  it  is  the  manner  of  seeing,  feeling  and 
transcribing  beauty  and  truth  which  constitutes 
what  we  call  art,  and  that  the  choice  of  subject 
should  be  left  to  the  temperamental  inclination 
of  the  artist. 

As  long  as  there  are  a  thousand  temperaments 
abroad  in  the  world  there  will  be  a  thousand 
different  styles  of  art  for  a  thousand  different 
tastes,  and  no  critic  in  passing  judgment  upon 
them  can  speak  for  anyone  but  himself.  I  may 
quarrel  with  the  great  Monet  and  other  dashing 
French  innovators  in  landscape  painting  —  the 
men  improperly  called  Impressionists  —  claiming 
that  there  is  actually  too  little  personal  impres- 
sionism in  their  work,  that  they  care  more  for 
the  means  than  the  end,  for  scientific  truth  than 
aesthetic  beauty,  and  that  their  selection  of  sub- 
jects is  too  haphazard  —  like  the  kodak  snapped 
at  random.  Nevertheless  I  am  willing  to  admit 
that  their  faithful  study  of  the  outward  appear- 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    25 

ances  of  nature  in  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
atmosphere  and  their  insistence  upon  taking  Na- 
ture off  her  guard  and  exactly  as  she  is  have 
resulted  occasionally  in  capturing,  more  closely 
than  ever  before,  fleeting  illusions  of  reality. 
And  so  I  can  readily  understand  thst  to  those 
who  regard  realism  as  the  be-all  and  end-all  of 
representative  art,  such  startlingly  naturalistic 
eflFects  are  preferable  to  the  atmospheric  but 
none  the  less  idealized  landscapes  of  Corot,  a 
master  who  cared  more  for  the  spirit  than  the 
substance  and  strove  ever  with  a  single  mind  to 
give  form  to  the  lyric  rapture  with  which  tender 
twilights  and  blithe  spring  mornings  thrilled  his 
soul.  It  is  all  in  the  point  of  view.  What  is 
life?  we  ask.  "One  damned  thing  after  another," 
says  the  Fool.  "A  series  of  definite  and  succes- 
sive changes,  both  of  structure  and  composition, 
which  take  place  within  an  individual  without 
destroying  its  identity,"  says  the  Wise  Man. 
"A  blur  of  vivid  impressions,"  says  the  artist. 
That  is  what  life  means  to  him.  Why  a  blur? 
Because  the  artist  insists  upon  focussing  his  atten- 
tion on  one  thing  at  a  time  and  everything  else 
is  a  blur  at  that  moment.  As  Walter  Pater  put 
it  —  he  wishes  "to  define  life,  not  in  the  most 
abstract,  but  in  the  most  concrete  terms  possible, 
to  find  not  a  universal  formula  for  beauty  or 
truth,  but  the  formula  which  expresses  most 
adequately  this  or  that  special  manifestation." 
In   another   chapter  of  that   remarkable   book 


26        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

"The  Renaissance,"  Pater  says:  "Every  moment 
some  form  grows  perfect  in  hand  or  face.  Some 
tone  on  the  hills  or  the  sea  is  choicer  than  the 
rest.  Some  mood  of  passion  or  insight  or  intel- 
lectual excitement  is  irresistibly  real  to  us  for 
that  moment  only.  ...  We  are  all  condemned 
to  death,  with  a  sort  of  indefinite  reprieve.  We 
have  our  interval  and  then  our  place  knows  us 
no  more.  Some  spend  this  interval  in  listless- 
ncss  —  others  in  high  passion  —  the  wisest,  at 
least,  of  the  children  of  men,  in  art  and  song.  .  .  . 
For  art  comes  to  us  professing  frankly  to  give 
nothing  but  the  highest  quality  to  our  moments 
as  they  pass,  and  simply  for  those  moments' 
sake."  That  is  the  best  declaration  I  have  ever 
seen  of  the  i.iotive  which  governs  and  guides  the 
representative  arts,  and  as  many  also  of  the 
presentative  arts  as  either  make  their  appeal 
directly  to  the  senses  like  colour,  music  and  danc- 
ing, or  strive  solely  for  such  concise  and  graphic 
effects  as  we  find  in  some  lyrics,  prose  sketches 
and  stories. 

"Our  moments  as  they  pass"  —  how  we  waste 
them!  The  beauties  that  come  and  go  with  the 
moments  —  how  insensible  we  are  to  their  coming 
and  going!  Once  gone  they  may  return  to  us  in 
memories,  with  the  intensified  emotion  of  dream- 
like things.  Yet  in  their  turn  the  memories  fade 
and  the  beauties  are  no  more.  Art  is  a  means  of 
giving  permanence  to  our  moods  and  memories, 
of   restoring   to   us,    something   at    least   of  the 


IMPRESSIONISTIC  POINT  OF  VIEW    27 

original  charm  of  a  sensuous  influence  that  has 
touched  our  lives  in  passing.  Is  it  not  wonderful 
that  a  few  familiar  words  of  our  daily  speech  may 
be  so  selected  and  arranged  by  a  poet  in  a  se- 
quence of  four  lines,  that  our  hearts  are  made  to 
beat  a  little  faster?  The  epigrams  of  our  Ameri- 
can poet  Aldrich  can  work  this  wonder. 

See  where  at  intervals  the  firefly's  spark 
Glimmers  and  melts  into  the  fragrant  dark, 
Gilds  a  leafs  edge  one  happy  instant  —  then 
Leaves  darkness  all  a  mystery  again. 

And  the  following  lines  may  make  some  of  us 
catch  our  breath: 

Two  things  there  are,  with  memory  will  abide 
Whatever  else  befalls  while  life  flows  by, 
That  soft,  cold  hand-clasp  at  the  altar  side. 
The  thrill  that  shook  you  at  your  child's  first  cry. 

To  feel  the  romance  of  our  brief  existence,  to 
delight  in  the  loveliness  of  little  things,  surely 
this  is  to  live  intensely  and  increase  one  hundred- 
fold our  capacity  for  living.  The  fleeting  mood; 
the  fugitive  fancies  that,  in  Browning's  phrase, 
"break  through  language  and  escape;"  things  that 
vanish,  and  fade,  and  sink  into  the  depths  of 
silence;  such  incorporate  and  impermanent  things 
impressionistic  art  perpetuates. 

Now  the  theologian  and  the  scientist,  the  phil- 
osopher and  the  epic  poet,  the  dramatist  and  the 
novelist,  the  historian  and  the  statesman,  the 
merchant  and  the  financier,  each  in  his  larger  or 
smaller  way,  tries  to  grasp  life  in   its  entirety. 


28 


THE   ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


The  worth  of  the  flying  moments  may  or  may  not 
have  impressed  him.  At  any  rate  it  is  the  serious 
business  of  life  which  absorbs  his  attention,  the 
eternal  verities  and  some  or  all  of  the  separate 
standards.  Meanwhile  the  artist  is  standing  by, 
watching  the  world  as  it  passes,  appreciating  time 
as  it  flies,  as  responsive  -to  every  influence  and 
experience  as  a  violin  to  the  touch  of  a  master, 
striving  to  give  his  sensations  and  his  moods 
emotional  unity  in  ins  mind,  and  then  artistic 
unity  in  his  creation  —  in  short,  to  give  definite 
form  to  each  separate,  personal  impression.  Such, 
then,  is  the  impressionistic  point  of  view. 


II 


WHAT  IMPRE:  SIONISM  IN  PAINTING 
REALLY  MEANS 

WHAT  does  Impressionism  in  paint- 
ing really  mean  ?  After  some  forty 
years  of  agitated  discussion,  there 
exists  in  the  public  mind  a  con- 
fusion amounting  to  bewilderment  in  regard  to 
the  proper  answer  to  that  question.  The  reason 
is  not  far  to  seek.  Critics  have  been  provocative 
and  entertaining,  according  to  their  fashion,  with 
a  truly  journalistic  contempt  for  any  short  cuts 
to  the  truth.  They  have  played  with  their  sub- 
ject as  a  cat  will  play  with  a  mouse,  to  prolong 
the  pleasurable  excitement.  George  Moore,  for 
instance,  pounced  upon  the  truth  when  he  said 
that  "Impressionism  penetrates  all  true  paint- 
ing" and  only  "in  its  most  modern  sense  signifies 
the  rapid  noting  of  illusive  appearance."  Yet  he 
allowed  the  thought  to  escape  that  he  might  play 
with  it  upon  some  other  occasion.  What  is  the 
result.?  Ask  the  average  well  informed  man  you 
meet  what  Impressionism  in  painting  really 
means,  and  he  will  reply  somewhat  as  follows  — 
"Oh  —  it's  a  new-fangled  French  way  of  painting 
everything    light    and    airy,    and    of   spilling    all 


30        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  colours  of  the  rainbow  —  helter-skelter  into 
the  same  picture." 

While   resenting   the   flippancy  of  the   gentle- 
man's manner,  the  most  enthusiastic  critics  of  the 
new   spectral   vision    could   hardly   quarrel   with 
the  truth  of  this  statement.     When  urged  to  a 
definition  of  the  same  subject,  Camille  Mauclaire 
proceeds  to  describe  industriously  the    technique 
of  colour  spots  invented  by  Claude  Monet  in  his 
attempt  to  render  the  shimmer  of  aerial  vibra- 
tion.    Now  this  method  is  a  typical  achievement 
of  the  modern  mind.     Suffice  it  here  to  say  that 
successful  as  it  has  been  in  producing  upon  canvas 
subtle  varieties  of  light  and  air,  it  is  at  best  a 
brave  but  crude  beginning  and  only  an  experi- 
ment in  the  evolution  of  realistic  painting.     So 
engrossed  is  the  painter  with  his  melted  outlines, 
his  divided  tones,  his  coloured  shadows,  that  his 
picture  too  closely  resembles  a  scientific  demon- 
stration.   "  Coloured  stenography,"  Huneker  called 
it.     It  seems  hardly  credible  that  learned  critics 
can  present  any  one   technique  as  the  embodi- 
ment   of    impressionism,    and    to    the    average 
mind  the  word  seems  altogether  too  big  for  mere 
technical  adventure,  however  important.     Yet  by 
the    common    consent    of    painters,    critics    and 
public,  Monet,  Degas  and  the  rest  of  that  group 
are  the  Impressionists.     The  perplexing  question 
is,  wherein  lies  their  right  to  a  monopoly  of  the 
title.''    Opinions,   moreover,   seem   to   be  divided 
whether  these  artists  are  Impressionist  i  because 


WHAT  IMPRESSIONISM  MEANS       31 

of  their  methods  or  because  of  their  motives. 
Most  writers  agree  with  M.  Mauclaire  that  the 
innovations  of  palette  and  brush  have  earned 
them  the  distinction,  for  these,  at  least,  are  in- 
disputably new.  Inconveniently,  however,  the 
methods  of  the  several  painters,  invariably 
grouped  together,  are  widely  dissimilar.  Some 
laid  their  paint  on  in  gobs,  others  in  thin 
washes.  If  Pointillisme  be  Impressionism,  how 
can  Degas  and  the  earlier  Manet  claim  kinship 
with  Monet,  Renoir,  Sisley  and  Pissarro?  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  this  little  band  of  men  are 
Impressionists  because  they  have  been  drawn 
together  to  express,  each  in  his  own  way,  tran- 
sient aspects  of  contemporaneous  reality,  how  can 
we  forget  that  the  expression  of  contemporaneous 
reality  has  been  the  unchanging  purpose  of  true 
realists  from  the  very  earliest  day.?  As  for  the 
transient  aspects,  the  new  regard  for  effects  of 
life  and  light  in  passing,  these  things  constitute 
one  of  the  valuable  contributions  of  modern  art. 
But  the  realistic  principle  dates  back  to  Giotto. 
Can  it  be  that  learned  critics,  in  cramming 
impressionism  into  a  new,  small  pigeon  hole, 
have  only  thickened  the  fog  of  misunderstanding 
that  envelopes  the  name? 

It  is  the  general  belief— a  belief  difficult  to 
wholly  eradicate,  that  impressionism  is  peculiarly 
modern  and  that,  being  modern,  it  consists  very 
nrturally  of  egotistical  specializations  and  ad- 
venturous experiments  in  technique.    Now  in  the 


32        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

first  place  we  forget  that  other  times  besides  our 
own  have  possessed  enquiring  minds.  It  is  in- 
herent in  the  nature  of  man  to  be  curious  and 
experimental.  He  begins  in  the  cradle  by  investi- 
gating the  mystery  of  his  toes,  and  he  ends  by 
dabbling  with  Nature's  elemental  forces,  also  with 
philosophy  and  machinery  and  art.  Da  Vinci 
wrote  learnedly  about  perspective  and  coloured 
shadows,  and  for  him,  as  Pater  observed,  "the 
novel  impression  he  conveyed,  the  exquisite  effect 
he  created  counted  as  an  end  in  itself  —  a  perfect 
end."  What  could  be  more  modern  in  subtlety 
of  suggestion  than  the  Mona  Lisa,  with  her 
watchful  eyes,  her  slow  disquieting  smile  and  that 
fantastic  background  of  blue-green  rocks  and  in- 
terminable rivulets.?  As  for  Rembrandt's  soul- 
searching  shaft  of  golden  light  that  is  but  another 
early  instance  of  the  craftsman  spirit  —  delighting 
in  the  production  of  "effects"  —  a  spirit  destined 
in  our  time  to  become  so  dominant  and  so  con- 
tagious a  force.  But  in  the  second  place,  the 
true  impressionism  is  not  solely  concerned  with 
technique  —  nor  is  it  the  gospel  of  either  art  for 
art's  sake  or  truth  for  truth's  sake.  In  the  last 
analysis  — it  is  the  soul  of  the  painter  that 
counts.  Cold  imitation,  be  it  ever  so  perfect, 
will  result  in  a  statement  of  fact  such  as  we  may 
find  in  any  book  of  reference.  Somehow  it  seems 
strange  to  us  that  we  ourselves,  we  of  the  blunder- 
ing fingers  and  of  the  thousand  jangling  opinions, 
should   be  of  importance  in  aesthetic  judgments. 


WHAT  IMPRESSIONISM  MEANS       33 

And  yet  without  us  —  Nature  would  be  wholly 
negligible.  The  world  is  what  we  make  it,  and 
what  is  called  Natural  Beauty  is  only  what  we 
conceive  to  be  beautiful.  The  personal  and 
spontaneous  impression  therefore  is  requisite  in 
realism  no  less  than  in  romance.  A  painting 
may  be  a  perfect  marvel  of  realistic  imitation  yet 
unworthy  to  be  called  art,  because  lacking  the 
artist's  testimony  of  impression. 

In  the  Walters  Collection  at  Baltimore  we  may 
see  side  by  side  two  small  but  characteristic 
canvases  by  Alma  Tadema  and  Millet.  The 
former  is  entitled  "The  Triumph  of  Titus."  It 
is  a  triumph  of  technique.  The  cold  and  lustrous 
sheen  of  the  marble  stairs  and  the  variegated 
textures  of  apparel  and  ornament  are  copied  in 
detail  with  unerring  exactness.  The  imitation  is 
astoundingly  perfect.  The  adjacent  Millet  repre- 
sents a  flock  of  sheep  huddled  by  night  in  their 
fold.  They  make  but  a  shimmering  blur  under 
the  misty  moon.  Nothing  is  described,  nothing 
defined.  And  yet  somehow  —  we  can  see  the 
restless  stirring  of  the  sheep,  we  can  feel  the 
chill  of  the  air,  and  we  are  overpowered  by 
the  poetic  illusion.  Now  both  these  pictures  are 
realistic,  each  in  its  own  way.  The  way  of 
Tadema  was  an  elaborate  and  painstaking  prose, 
whereas  Millet's  picture  is  endowed  with  the 
directness  and  simplicity  of  poetic  inspiration. 
Tadema  arrived  at  his  knowledge  of  Titus  and 
his  time  through  toilsome  years  of  study;    Millet 


34        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

saw  his  vision  of  the  sheep-fold  one  night  and 
transcribed  his  impression  before  his  brain  was 
cool.  Tadema  employed  the  facts  he  found  in 
books;  Millet  the  secrets  he  learned  from  Nature. 
Tadtma,  the  scholar,  painted,  with  fastidious  pre- 
cision, colourful  chapters  of  ancient  history;  Millet, 
the  poet-painter,  with  spontaneous  and  sublime 
carelessness,  the  peasants  from  whose  midst  he 
came,  their  fields  and  flocks,  their  labour  and 
their  love.  Both  men  were  realists;  Millet  was 
also  an  impressionist. 

It  is  my  firm  belief  that  impressionism  is  not  a 
transient  technique,  but  an  ancient  and  abiding 
faith,   not   merely   the   sensational   production   of 
some  revolutionary  modern  painters,  but  one  of 
the  basic  principles  —  and  the  one  true  philoso- 
phy,   of   all    painting.     In    its    larger   and    more 
vital  sense,  it  is  the  artist's  rule  of  self  reliance, 
ordaining  that  transcripts  from  nature  be  made, 
not  with  too  scrupulous  a  devotion  to  objective 
truth  and  photographiv-  accuracy,  but  of  necessity 
through  the  personal  observation  of  the  painter, 
refracting,   most  effectively,   his   individual   point 
of   view,    and    perpetuating,    most    recognizably, 
his   spontaneous   impression.     The   never   resting 
mind   of  man   is   constantly   recording   emotions 
and   sensations  from   the   myriad   phases  of  our 
mutual  existence.     As  many  as  are  the  eyes  that 
see,  the  hearts  that  feel,  the  brains  that  formu- 
late   their    conception    of    visible    or    intangible 
things,    so    many    are    life's    real    impressionists. 


WHAT  IMPRESSIONISM  MEANS       35 

The  value  of  their  impressions  varies  according 
to  their  understanding.  Even  among  those  whose 
talents  seek  expression  in  the  arts,  there  are  all 
kinds  of  impressionists,  from  the  men  of  lofty 
genius  on  the  mountain  peaks  of  inspiration,  the 
Michel  Angelos,  and  the  Rembrandts,  to  the 
horde  of  petty  craftsmen  who  labor  in  sterile 
moorlands  with  unavailing  and  uncouth  endeavour. 
Midway  upon  the  scale  are  the  radical,  experi- 
mental Frenchmen  we  have  been  discussing. 
They  are  so  enamoured  of  the  appearances  of  ob- 
jects under  diffused  or  conflicting  lights,  so 
absorbed  in  the  striving  to  render  visual  sensa- 
tion, that  nobility  of  theme  seldom  disturbs 
them.  They  are  impressionists  to  be  sure.  But 
they  represent  merely  the  most  recent  stage  in  a 
gradual  and  logical  development. 

That  astute  critic  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson,  was,  I 
think,  the  first  to  point  out  that  Impressionism 
in  the  sense  which  is  commonly  accepted  to-day 
received  its  original  impulse  from  the  supreme 
Velasquez.  This  is  acute  criticism.  Velasquez 
represents  in  the  history  of  painting  ?he  force  of 
inspired  initiative,  asserting  its  independence  from 
traditional  limitations,  and  achieving  at  a  bound 
the  goal  of  its  endeavour.  To  him  Stevenson 
attributes  the  practical  demonstration  of  that 
vital  principle  which  ordains  that  objects  should 
not  be  painted  as  they  are  known  to  exist,  but  as 
they  appear  to  the  momentary  and  more  or  less 
abstracted  gaze,  under  ever  changing  conditions 


m 


;..tj 


36        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

of  light  and  air.  As  a  definition  of  the  impres- 
sionism of  nineteenth-century  realists,  we  shall 
see  how  this  utters  indeed  the  last  word.  How- 
ever, if  the  critic  had  regarded  impressionism  as 
an  eternal  principle  rather  than  as  a  modern 
practice,  he  would  have  taken  for  his  model  not 
merely  the  brilliant  advances  which  Velasquez 
made  upon  the  knowledge  of  his  time,  but  the 
complete  genius  of  the  man,  inclusive  of  those 
instincts  for  decoration  and  self-expression  which 
he  inherited  from  his  predecessors.  His  Shake- 
spearian immensity  lay  in  his  perfect  mastery  of 
the  dual  nature  of  his  art,  the  decorative  and  the 
representative,  both  interpenetrated  by  his  taste 
for  colour  and  line  on  the  one  hand,  and  his  vision 
of  his  model  on  the  other. 

Let  us,  then,  formulate  new  conclusions,  at  the 
sacrifice,  perhaps,  of  favourite  theories.  In  the 
first  place,  impressionism  cannot  be  said  to  repre- 
sent any  one  technique  nor  any  one  way  of 
viewing  nature,  but  rather,  all  artistic  achieve- 
ments, whatever  the  method,  in  which  sincere, 
spontaneous,  and  forthright  impressions  are  con- 
vincingly expressed  through  the  art  conceived  by 
the  brain  and  the  craft  designed  by  the  hand. 
In  the  second  place,  impressionism  is  by  no 
means  solely  concerned  with  the  naturalistic  por- 
trayal of  transient  aspects  of  contemporaneous 
reality.  It  is  quite  as  high  an  art  and  a  much 
more  difficult  one  to  give  form  and  substance  to 
one's  fleeting  impression  of  intangible  beauty;   to 


WHAT  IMPRESSIONISM  MEANS       37 
sound  with  Whistler  a  chord  of  colour;    to  incar- 
nate with  Watts  a  powerful  thought;  or  to  per- 
petuate   with    the    painters    of    old    Japan    a 
vanishing   dream.     Romance   yields   her   impres- 
sions no  less  than  realism.     Thirdly,  impression- 
ism IS  not  new  and  strange  but  marvelously  old. 
Stevenson    said    that   to   visit   Velasquez   at   the 
Prado  was  to  shatter  one's  belief  in  the  modernity 
of  modern    painting.     He   might   less   cautiously 
and  quite  as  accurately  have  stated  that  many 
centuries  before  his  great  Spaniard,  far  back  in 
those  dim  ages  of  esthetic  dynasties,  at  the  other 
end   of  the   world,   there   existed   in   China   and 
Japan  an  art  of  landscape  painting  which  con- 
tained the  essence  of  impressionism,  that  is,  an 
art  in  which  the  means  of  expression  were  har- 
moniously   adapted    to    the    artist's    individual 
emotion.     For  after  all,  impressionism  is  synony- 
mous in  equal  measure  with  art  itself,  which  is 
purely  technical,  and  the  motive  that  makes  for 
art,  which  is,  or  should  be,  inspirational.     In  its 
only  logical  sense  it  means  the  concise  expression, 
through  concrete  symbols  or  suggestions,  of  single, 
personal  impressions,  both  realistic  and  romantic. 


VELASQUEZ 


in 

-"THE   ENCHANTER  OF 
REALISM" 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS,  in  his  book  on 
Spain,  confessed  that  he  stopped  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Prado  Gallery  in  Madrid 
to  ask  himself,  with  fast  beating  heart, 
what  good  he  had  ever  done  in  life  to  deserve  the 
wonderful  joy  that  was  in  store  for  him.  I 
remember  how  I  laughed  at  the  emotional  Italian. 
Yet,  when  I  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  great 
Velasquez  room,  and  beheld  out  of  the  corners  of 
my  eye  the  masterpieces  of  the  supreme  master 
of  modem  painting,  something  of  the  same  emotion 
came  to  me.  I  expected  so  much  that  I  feared 
disillusionment,  I  braced  myself  for  the  shock.  But 
the  precaution  was  unnecessary.  It  was  almost 
better  than  the  banquet  —  that  preliminary  relish 
I  took  of  general  impression.  I  seemed  to  be 
in  the  midst  of  a  stately,  gloomy  life,  at  least 
two  centuries  behind  the  times,  and  yet  as  real 
to  me  as  the  present,  and  far  more  vivid.  For 
suddenly  I  experienced  an  endowment  with  ex- 
ceptional powers,  so  that  I  could  see  the  intense 
beauty  of  truth  and  of  all  truthful  appearances,  as 
if  for  the  first  time.  Chardin,  it  is  true,  had 
given  me  moments  of  similar  delight,  with  his 


I    i 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM       39 
little  pictures  of  blue  and  yellow  grapes,  blue  and 
creamy  crockery,  peaches,   red  wine,  gray  walls 
and  copper  kettles,  all  suffused  with  the  magic 
of  real  light  and  inspired  observation.     And,  of 
course,  I  had  raved  over  many  a  Frans  Hals,  the 
bloom  of  a  plump  cheek,  the  kindling  laughter  of 
an  eye.     But  Chardin's  touch  idealized  and  Hals' 
brush    improvised.     It    is    Velasquez    alone    who 
realized   reality   and   left   it   more   real   than   he 
found  it.     Not  a  face,  nor  a  hand,  nor  a  back- 
ground but  was  literally  true.     I  found  very  little 
beauty  in  the  commonly  accepted   sense  of  the 
word   in  that  Velasquez  room  at  the   Prado.     I 
found  chiefly  men,  women  and  children,  of  the 
unmistakable    Iberian    cast,   with    which    I   was 
already  familiar;    arid   brown   plains  and   broad 
blue  distances,    such    as   may   be  seen   from   the 
car   window  to-day  as  one  approaches   Madrid; 
glimpses    of   rooms    seen    dimly    at    first    behind 
figures  of  a  period  when  dress  was  particularly 
bad,  and  people,  dreary  people,  either  of  royal 
blood,  or  satellites  of  the  sombre  Court,  from  the 
arrogant   Prime  Minister  to  the  piteous  dwarfs, 
idiots  and  buffoons  who  supplied  the  amusement 
when    time    dragged    wearily   within    the    musty 
walls.     Only    a    Court    painter    then    was    this 
Velasquez  — a    person    who    painted    pictures  to 
order  as  the  tailor  produced  liveries.     And  yet, 
as  I  looked  from  portrait  to  landscape,  from  a 
great  decorative  battle  scene  to  a  greater  repre- 
sentation of  things  as  they  once  appeared,  I  knew 


M 


40        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

that  I  was  face  to  face  with  the  mystery  of 
genius  —  that  compound  of  "original  seeing,  in- 
tellectual courage  and  some  gift  or  other  of 
expression,"  that  genius  of  eyesight  which  enables 
us  to  see  things  as  we  never  could  have  seen  them 
before,  and  to  find  beauty  where  we  did  not  know 
that  beauty  could  exist. 

It  is  commonly  supposed  that  to  appreciate 
Velasquez  one  must  be  either  a  painter  or  a 
special  student  of  painting,  that  since  there  is 
so  little  beauty  of  subject  to  be  found,  the  beauty 
must  be  entirely  in  the  way  the  things  are  done, 
in  short  the  technique.  This  is  indeed  true. 
Velasquez  is  the  modern  painter's  painter,  and 
the  paragon  of  all  the  virtues  which  the  more 
enlightened  art  schools  teach.  Yet,  these  virtues 
are  not  just  for  the  emulation  of  the  few.  They 
make  for  the  larger  life  of  the  many.  To  demand 
that  pictorial  art  should  be  altogether  subject 
or  altogether  sentiment,  but  without  style,  is 
the  same  thing  as  to  expect  a  man  to  be  alto- 
gether body  or  altogether  spirit,  but  without  that 
mind  which  alone  can  make  body  and  spirit 
effective.  Some  people  dislike  technique,  because 
they  consider  it  too  material.  Yet,  as  Stevenson 
was  fond  of  repeating,  "Without  matter  there 
would  be  no  stuff  in  which  imagination  could 
create  an  image."  A  picture  without  distinction 
of  visual,  structural,  or  technical  character,  is 
like  a  man  whose  natural  powers  of  body  and 
spirit  have  been  rendered  helpless  by  sheer  lack 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM       41 

of  mental  discipline.     Whether  we  care  to  admit 
it   or   not,   art   implies   technique,   which   simply 
means   the   method   of  doing   a   thing  well.    Of 
course,  no  matter  how  well  a  thing  may  be  done, 
it  must  be  done  with  a  joy  and  a  purpose,  other- 
wise it  will  not  be  worth  doing.     If  that  zest  were 
really  lacking  in  Velasquez,  we  could  hold  him 
responsible  for  all  the  soulless  virtuosity  practiced 
in  the  name  of  "Art  for  Art's  Sake."     But  this  is 
not  true.     It  was  because  this  artist  loved  life's 
actualities   with    a   love    surpassing   that    of  the 
idealist  that  he  was  not  only  able  to  depict  things 
truthfully,  but  with  a  beauty  that  belonged  to 
his  own  mind  and  soul.     Velasquez  was  neither 
unemotional  nor  even  impersonal.     On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  a  reverential  devotee  of  Nature  and 
her  secrets.     He  insisted  upon  going  to  Nature 
with   an    open    mind  —  free   from    formulas   and 
preconceptions.     His  idea  of  pictorial  beauty  was 
not  to  make  an  arbitrary  design  to  improve  upon 
Nature,  but  rather,  through  powers  of  personal 
discrimination    and   discernment,   to   select   from 
Nature  the  forms  and  colours  of  our  visible  world 
itself,  the  sights  that  are  so  inevitable  a  part  of 
our  waking  existence,  and  which  may  be  so  in- 
dispensable a  part  of  our  inner  consciousness. 

Although  "Las  Meninas"  is  the  most  wonderful 
picture  in  the  world,  we  may  prefer  the  more  sumpt- 
uous and  splendid  "Las  Lanzas,"  better  known 
as  "The  Surrender  of  Breda."  This  picture 
bridges  the  gap  between  the  decorative  realm  of 


III 


fill 


42        THE   ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Italy  and  Rubens,  and  the  modern  art  of  Raeburn 
and  Constable,  of  Corot  and  Manet.  Velasquez 
was  demonstrating  that  magnificence  of  pictorial 
decoration  could  be  made  without  falsifying  the 
scene  represented.  Such  is  the  power  of  sugges- 
tion when  expressed  by  a  great  artist's  selection 
of  only  what  is  significant,  that  the  action  or 
arrangement  of  the  few  figures  and  horses  on  this 
conspicuous  hilltop,  the  glimpses  we  get  of  the 
distant  battlefield  and  its  smouldering  fires,  the 
hedge  of  pikes  and  lances  held  at  rest,  these 
details  satisfy  the  mind  at  a  glance  of  the  exact 
situation  between  the  two  armies.  Some  of  the 
soldiers  of  the  foreground  stare  at  us  with  dis- 
concerting curiosity,  but  the  chief  actors  in  the 
scene  are  intent  upon  the  business  in  hand,  rather 
anxious  to  have  it  over  with,  this  ceremony  so 
trying  to  both  conquered  and  conqueror.  We 
admire  the  sense  of  impulsive  magnanimity  with 
which  Spinola  receives  the  key  of  the  city. 
The  story  then  is  clearly  and  attractively  told, 
and  yet  the  purpose  of  the  picture  is  purely  and 
frankly  decorative.  Note  the  arabesque  of  lances 
against  the  sky,  the  landscape  stretching  miles 
and  miles,  the  dull  red  of  the  soil  steeped  in  a 
veil  of  bluish  atmosphere,  the  pattern  of  flat  colour 
masses,  green,  orange,  chestnut,  buff  and  black. 
See  the  canvas  from  the  proper  distance  and  no 
Titian  will  seem  to  you  more  rich  in  colour  and 
design.  So  I  say,  we  may  prefer  "Las  Lanzas"  to 
"Las  Meninas"  and  to  every  other  picture  in  the 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM       43 

world.  But  it  is  not  the  essential  Velasquez. 
It  is  a  splendid  compromise  with  Italy  and 
Rubens,  and  the  Master  is  immortal,  just  because 
he  usually  made  no  such  concessions,  because  he 
relied  implicitly  upon  his  own  eyesight  and 
philosophy. 

Turn  then  to  "Las  Meninas"  and  let  the  pic- 
ture work  its  will  with  you.     Here  is  no  colour 
scheme  —  no  balancing  of  lines  and  masses.     You 
are  prepared  to  find  fault  with  this  picture,  be- 
cause the  subject  is  not  concentrated  as  is  cus- 
tomary in  the  middle  plane;    because  the  figures 
are  pushed  out  to  the  immediate  foreground,  and 
in   accentuated   light,   with  darkness   above   and 
beyond.     Perhaps,  according  to  the  schools,  you 
are  right;   but  soon  you  will  be  willing  to  admit 
that  Velasquez  was  greater  than  the  schools.     He 
knew  how  to  make  that  empty  vaulting  and  the 
gloomier  recesses  of  the  dark  room  say  just  what 
he  wanted  most  to  say.    It  was  thus  and  thus 
only  that  he  could  give  the  exact  "flavour  of  his 
impression."    This  picture  was  to  be  a  poem  on 
the  subdued  splendour  of  real  light,  as  it  appears 
indoors.     Real  light  dictated  the  point  of  view, 
dominated  the  colour  and  the  composition.     It  is 
the  mystery  of  real  light  which  makes  the  har- 
monious ensemble  of  this  and  every  other  great 
Velasquez,  fusing  the  colours,  modelling  the  forms, 
creating  the  exact  thrill  of  the  original  impression. 
In  "Las  Meninas"  the  daylight  enters  gently 
at  the  window  across  the  group  of  figures.    It 


44        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

blurs  a  little  the  figure  of  the  dwarfed  woman, 
who  is  not  only  in  strong  light  but  out  of  focus. 
For,  of  course,  it  is  the  dainty  royal  child  upon 
whom  we  look,  as  she  stands  with  inborn  dignity 
among  her  attendants.     The  full  light  from  the 
window  makes  the  sunward  rim  of  the  big  canvas 
shine,  the  unseen  picture  upon  which  Velasquez 
has  depicted  himself  at  work.     Note,  too,  how  the 
panelled  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  reflects 
the    light    from    beyond,    thus    lengthening    the 
aerial    perspective.     But    the    parts    in    shadow, 
they  are  the  real  miracle;    the  high  and  empty 
spaces     where     nothing     stands    out,    and     yet 
everything   may   be    seen,    as   our   eyes   become 
accustomed  to  the  gloom;    where  the  air  is  un- 
obtrusive, as  always  in  a  shadowy  place,  yet  per- 
meating, circulating.    "We  feel,"  writes  John  Hay 
in  "Castilian  Days,"  "like  walking  to  the  side  of 
the  painter  to  see  how  his  portrait  is  coming  on." 
The  illusion  is  startling,  an  illusion  somehow  of 
aspects  and  effects,  almost  subconsciously  familiar. 
The  more  we  look,  the  more  we  forget  art  and 
stand  in  the  midst  of  life.    That  is  art's  triumph 
—  to  make  us  acknowledge  that  out  of  the  dead 
past   a   moment   has   been   made   to   live   again. 
No  romantic  dream,  though  ever  so  mellifluous, 
could  charm  us  with  so  sure  a  charm,  the  charm 
of   a   severely   plain    and    darkened    room    as   it 
appeared  once  just  for  a  moment,  with  just  a 
moment's  accident  of  transitory  light,  of  unpre- 
meditated action  and  arrangement,  and  of  natural 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM  45 
colour.  How  could  the  romance  of  reality  be 
better  demonstrated  for  all  to  see,  than  by  this 
record  of  a  casual  observation,  converted  into  a 
thing  of  transcendant  beauty  by  the  sheer  aesthetic 
impressionability  of  a  single  human  vision. 

Of  the  master's  brush-work  it  is  easy  to  become 
ecstatic    and    lose    one's    sense    of   art's    relative 
values.     His    dexterity    was    amazing,    and    his 
mastery  of  his  materials  greater  than  that  of  any 
painter  before  or  since.     Hals  was  also  a  magician 
of  the  brush,  but  h;  was  a  specialist,  like  our  one- 
sided   painters  of    to-<lay.     Such   versatility    as 
Velasquez  reveals  at  the  Prado  must  make  us  all 
very    humble.     Beginning   with    a    hard    realism 
which  aimed  at  nothing  more  than  the  imitation 
of  objects  and  the  character  of  a  face,  or  a  figure, 
he  learned  quickly  how  to  eliminate  and  simplify 
for  the  sake  of  z   single  effect.     Each  head   in 
"Los  Borrachos"  iu  such  a  masterpiece  of  charac- 
terization that  our  attention  passes  from  part  to 
part  and  fails  to  remember  the  picture  as  a  whole. 
Velasquez  learned  in  time  that  an  impressionistic 
portrait  group  is  an  impossibility.     Here  we  get 
an  impression,  it  is  true,  an  impression  of  the 
dazed   way  these  besotted   peasants  are  staring 
at  us,  from  eyes  all  stark  with  drink.     But  that 
was  not  the  essential  impression.     We  have  lost 
the  picture  in  appreciation  of  the  parts.    Then  the 
painter   undertook    his   first   visit   to   Italy,   and 
the  decorative  pictures  and  equestrian  portraits 
with  landscape  backgrounds  are  the  result.     Dur- 


46        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

ing    this    period,    Velasquez,    became    a    spirited 
sketcher  of  atmospheric  effects.     The  equestrian 
portrait  of  Balthasar  Carlos  is  almost  lyrical;    so 
rhythmic  and  fresh  is  it  in  colour  and  spirit,  so 
true  to  the  mood  of  winsome  boyhood,  and  the 
physical  joy  of  a  gallop  when,  on  a  spring  morn- 
ing,   the    wind    is    racing    from    the    hills.    The 
colours  sparkle.     The  silver  of  the  cloud  shine  and 
of  the  light  on  the  snowy  summits  enlivens  the 
melody  made  by  the  brisk  hoofs  of  the  comical 
barrel-shaped  pony,  and  the  pink  and  gold  sash 
of  the  little  prince  as  it  flies  in  the  breeze.     With 
such  adventures    in    art  Velasquez  was  training 
his  eye  for  the  slashing  and  rippling,  flowing  and 
flowering  brush  stroke  of  his  later  days.     And  he 
was  also  anticipating  the  decorative  harmonies  of 
colour  with  which  he  interpreted  the  charm  of  chil- 
dren.    The  "Infanta"  of  the  Louvre  is  a  simple 
chord  of  coral  pink,  black  and  pearl.     At  Vienna 
we  enjoy  the  same  little  girl  dressed  in  salmon 
pink  and  standing  against  a  curtain  of  robin's  egg 
blue.    The  "Maria  Theresa"  of  the  Prado  is  a 
brilliant  improvisation  in  tints  of  strawberry  and 
silver.    The  sparkle  of  the  braid  and  the  filmy 
transparency  of  the  lace  handkerchief  reveal  an  un- 
erring lightness  and  a  debonair  certainty  of  touch. 
But  the  most  wonderful  portrait  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  virtuoso   is   the  "Pope   Innocent" 
of  the  Doria   Palace,   Rome.     The  sheen  of  the 
cape  is  brushed  in  swirls  of  purple  and  pink  that 
only  a  genius  would  have  dared  to  reveal  as  the 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM       47 
hollows  and  high-lights  of  crimson  silk.    Tintoret 
and  Greco  influenced  this  cape,  and  Titian  may 
be  detected  m  the  wonderful  grainy  white  which 
in  a  large  way,  imitates  the  fringes  of  heavy  lace 
of  the  prelate's  skirt.     But  only  Velasquez  could 
have    modelled    the    face,    modelled    it    in    full 
uncompromising  light,  thus  capturing  that  furtive 
look  of  smister  calculation;    the  expression  of  a 
ftard     man     hoarding     dark     thoughts.     "Bob" 
Stevenson,   in   his   invaluable   commentary  upon 
Velasquez,  said  that  the  only  key  to  the  secret  of 
the  master's  modelling  was  "the  brushing  of  the 
obvious  direction  of  the  forms  so  as  to  supplement 
tone    and    structure    by    the    sentiment    of   the 
execution."     I   am   particularly  pleased    by  this 
phrase  "the  sentiment  of  the  execution."     Elabo- 
rating the  thought,  he  insists  that  Velasquez  never 
used  style  for  its  own  sake.     "His  composition 
was  never  a  pattern  forced  upon  Nature.     His 
drawing  was   not   an   effort   to   realize   abstract 
contours.     His  colour  was  not  the  harmony   of 
positive    tints    understood    by    a    milliner.    His 
brush  was  constantly  changing  with  his  impres- 
sions, as  the  tones  of  a  man's  voice  vary  with 
his  emotions.    Thus  in   'Philip  IV  Old'  no  brush- 
work  IS  visible  as  befits  an  illusion  of  flesh  closely 
seen    m    strong   light.     His    modelling   not    only 
changes  character  with  the  amount  of  light    but 
with  the  size  of  the  canvas,  the  width  or  narrow- 
ness of  the  field  of  view,  and  the  position  near  or 
Jar  from  the  focus  of  impression." 


48        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

"Las  Hilanderas"  is  an  example  of  the  perfec- 
tion of  human  sight  and  reproductive  skill.     We 
stand  among  the  spinners  in  the  dark  work  room 
of  the  Royal  Manufactory  of  Tapestries.     As  in 
"Las  Meninas,"  the  upper  air  is  steeped  in  gloom. 
But  here  the  eye  is  attracted  by  a  view  into  the 
show-room  where  on  the  wall  the  dazzling  day- 
light   pours    upon    tapestries    of   rose,    blue    and 
silver,  and  upon  the  figures  of  fashionable  ladies 
standing  there.     From  this  luminous  background 
a   single   ray  of  light   falls   upon   the   exquisitely 
rounded  neck  and  shoulders  of  a  young  girl  in  the 
centre   of   the   workers.     The   shadows   are   deep 
enough  to  dim  the  faces  and  S?ures  of  the  other 
women,   but  we   can   see   (and   almost   hear)   the 
whirring  revolutions  of  the  spinning  wheel.     The 
contrast   then   is  of  light  and  dark  air,  of  colour 
and  gloom,  riches  and  poverty,  luxury  and  toil, 
but  all  this  felt  rather  than  seen,  in  the  dull  way 
we  feel    things   when,   in   real   life,   we   are   pre- 
occupied by  the  moment's  purely  visual  impres- 
sion.    The  modern  impressionism  which  aims  at 
transitory  effects  of  light    and    air  has  achieved 
no  picture  comparable  to  this,  nor  have  I  found  a 
more  interesting  impression  of  the  really  signifi- 
cant facts  of  life,  in  any  picture  of  the  type  which 
depends    upon    interest    of    subject    for    success. 
Those  who  would   find   the   complete   Velasquez, 
the  accurate  and  yet  profoundly  thoughtful  ob- 
server of  appearances,  and  the  marvellous  virtuoso 
of  the  brush,  can  find  him  in  this  picture.     It 


THE  ENCHANTER  OF  REALISM       49 

may  be  less  pleasing  than  "Las  Lanzas"  and  less 
perfect  than  "Las  Meninas,"  but  it  is,  I  repeat,  the 
complete  Velasquez,  and  therefore,  needless  to 
say,  one  of  the  two  or  three  most  important 
pictures  in  the  world. 

Of    his    more    personal    moods,    the    beggars, 
dwarfs,  and  buffoons  are  perhaps  the  best  expres- 
sion.   They  speak  his  mind  about  the  beauty  of 
the  homeliest  truths,  if  eyes  know  how  to  see. 
Free  from  Court  dictation,  the  artist  was  free  to 
use  the  utmost  freedom  in  his  satirical  conceptions 
and  technical  experiments.    The  old  fellow  named 
Aesop   is    painted  with   a  gusto  and   a  bravura 
which  surpasses  Hals,  and  without  his  slashing. 
The  face  is  that  of  a  street-corner  philosopher, 
resigned   to  life,   and  soon  to  be  done  with  it, 
inclined  to  be  tolerant  with  adversity,  and  toler- 
ant too  with  his  own  rather  worthless  self,  yet 
crackling  like  a  tongue  of  fire  among  dead  leaves 
with  a  dry,  crisp  humour.     "Moenippus"  too  is 
an  odd  "character"  treated  with  playful  satire 
and   inspired  fancifulness  of  execution.     In  fact 
he    seems   to   me   the   inspiration   of  everything 
Whistler  ever  did  in  portraiture.     Velasquez  was 
here  insisting  that  bright  colours  are  not  essential 
to  decoration.     Take  an  old  quaint  beggar,  with 
the  wild,  jolly  Iook  of  a  man  who  talks  with  wit 
unbecoming  his  years,  such  a  fellow  will  do  if  you 
place  him  on  narrow,  upright  canvas  that  sets  off 
his  gaunt  figure.    The  black  cloak  will  not  be 
too  sombre  nor  the  brown  slouch  hat  too  dull  for 


so  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
this  decorative  panel.  Tilt  the  head  back  a  little, 
just  to  catch  the  pale  light,  which  will  mellow 
the  dusty  black  of  the  cloak  and  brown  of  the 
hat  as  it  skims  the  enveloping  darkness,  and 
reveals  the  depths  of  air  around  and  beyond. 
By  a  perfect  handling  of  "values,"  and  a  magic 
of  smudgy  touch,  Velasquez  has  left  the  empty 
spaces  full  of  air  and  the  homely  textures  eloquent 
of  form. 

Already,  I  have  said  more  than  enough  about 
the  "Enchanter  of  Realism,"  for  Stevenson's 
book  IS  the  last  word  on  the  subject.  However, 
I  would  advise  you  to  forget  everything  yoii 
have  read,  and  to  take  the  first  opportunity  to 
discover  Velasquez  for  yourself.  You  will  never 
forget  the  experience.  The  Sud  Express  carries 
you  in  comfort  from  Paris  to  Madrid  in  twenty- 
two  hours. 


MOENIPPUS 
By  Felasquez 


i 


IV 


REVOLUTIONS  AND  REACTIONS  IN 
PAINTING 

ATTEMPTING  to  define  what  painting 
/%  ought  to  be,  that  profound  critic 
#  %  Thomas  Coleridge  arrived  at  the  true 
X  m.  meaning  of  Impressionism  in  the  pic- 
torial arts.  "Painting"  he  said,  "is  the  middle 
quality  between  a  thought  and  a  thing,  the  union 
of  that  which  is  Nature  with  that  which  is 
exclusively  human."  Now  among  the  great  Im- 
pressionists this  middle  quality  has  been  estab- 
lished and  maintained.  In  the  best  pictures  by 
Velasquez  the  balance  was  absolutely  perfect. 
If  to-day  he  is  considered  the  greatest  painter  of 
all  times  it  is  because,  in  making  us  see  the  truth 
of  just  what  he  saw,  he  also  made  us  feel  the 
beauty  of  just  what  he  felt.  Thus  we  learned 
from  him  both  the  beauty  of  truth,  so  variously 
appealing  to  us  all,  and  the  truth  of  beauty,  as 
revealed  to  his  individual  consciousness.  The 
great  landscape  painters  were  equally  true  to  this 
aesthetic  impressionism.  It  was  Constable  who 
first  applied  to  the  study  of  earth  and  sky  the 
great  principle  Velasquez  had  formulated,  namely, 
the  difference  between  fact  and  appearance,  be- 
tween actuality  and  the  truth  of  visual  sensation. 


I.I 


52        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Yet  although  this  great  pathfinder  was  the  first  to 
do  justice  to  the  good,  familiar  world  out-of-doors, 
the  first  to  discard  the  drop-curtain  which  had  so 
long  passed  for  landscape,  yet  his  daring  brush 
did  not,  in  its  pride,  obtrude  its  new  devices. 
The  balance  was  maintained.  Once  again,  with 
Corot,  it  was  the  soul  of  the  great  poet  combined 
with  the  enlightened  skill  of  the  observant 
naturalist  which  cast  both  the  illusion  of  reality 
and  the  spell  of  fairyland  over  the  commonplace 
suburbs  of  Paris.  It  seems  then  that  Coleridge 
was  absolutely  right  when  he  said  "Painting  is 
the  middle  quality  between  a  thought  and  a 
thing." 

In  approaching  the  exhibitions  of  these  latter 
days  we  discover  at  once  how  technique  has  come 
to  vaunt  itself,  to  overwhelm  both  subject  and 
sentiment.  The  means  of  expression  are  of  more 
concern  than  the  thing  to  be  expressed  and  all 
too  often,  in  spite  of  many  pretensions  to  the 
contrary,  painters  express  nothing  but  the  newness 
of  their  paint  or  the  newness  of  their  particular 
cult.  As  I  write,  the  air  of  studios  in  New  York 
is  charged  with  much  talk  about  painting,  talk 
which  is  full  of  fanaticism  and  mystification  and 
real  concern  for  the  future  of  art,  all  agitated  by 
a  recent  exposure  of  crass  sensationalism  in 
pictures  —  an  International  Exhibition  of  Modern 
Art  quite  stupefying  in  its  vulgarity.  With  this 
experience  fresh  in  memory  the  first  thought  that 
occurs   to   me    about    contemporary   painting   is 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING  53 

that  it  is  lawless,  the  second,  following  fast  upon 
the  first    ,s  that  its  lawlessness  has  in  many  cases 

""^a'u  I  IT'"  ^  ''^"^^  ^°  ^''  °^n  "^ad  ^vhims 

hke    the    Old    Masters -he    tries    to    be    what 
nobody  ever  wanted  to   be  before  him.     Superfi- 
cially such  a  philosophy  has  a  gallant  air.     Gau- 
guin s  much  quoted  classification  of  painters  as 
either  plagiarists  or  revolutionists  was  like  a  call 
to    battle.     The  motley  horde  of   studio-adven- 
turers heard  the  call.     To^ay  they  are  riotously 
proclaiming    that    everything     shall     be    upside 
down,    that    in    the    new   art    no   woman    need 
have  a  mouth.     Instead  she  may  have  four  eyes 
all  on  the  same  side  of  her  face.     It  is  not  true 
But   who   shall   say  what   is   truth?    A   woman 
with  no  mouth  and  four  eyes  will  give  a  man  a 
new  and  strange  emotion.    That  emotion  is  art 
Scratches  of  pale   pink   and   blobs  of  blood-red 
may  not  suit  an  anaemic  taste,  but  can  we  be  sure 
that  It  IS  not  a  very  exquisite  colour  scheme  for 
interior    decoration.     Who    shall    say    what    is 
beauty?    Pale   pink   and    blood-red   will    give    a 
man  a  new  and  strange  emotion.    That  emotion 
IS  art      So  runs  the  philosophy  of  Matisse  and 
his  rollowers. 

But  of  course  such  extremists  are  anarchists  not 
artists.  As  Kenyon  Cox  puts  it,  they  no  more 
deserve  consideration  as  technicians  than  the  bad 
boys  whose  nasty  smudges  in  coloured  chalks  they 
unconsciously  imitate.     When  I  say  that  in  these 


« 


54        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

latter  days  technique  has  come  to  vaunt  itself  — 
to  overwhelm  subject  and  sentiment,  I  do  not 
refer  to  the  representatives  of  degeneracy  in 
painting.  I  am  thinking  rather  of  the  most 
brilliant  artists  of  our  period  —  men  who  are 
making  the  most  vivid  history  of  our  own  time. 
Some  of  them  are  Romanticists,  others  Realists 
—  but  an  influence  common  to  both  their  camps 
keeps  their  advance  in  a  similar  direction.  This 
influence  is  the  scientific  spirit  of  the  age.  Nature 
is  now  reverenced,  not  so  much  for  its  spiritual 
appeal  nor  as  a  wonderful  background  for  the 
human  drama  but  for  its  evanescent  effects,  its 
fascinating  problems.  The  essential  character- 
istic of  the  prevailing  impressionism  is  the  delight 
in  the  display  of  skill.  Of  course  there  are  less 
adventurous  spirits  content  to  tell  tales  to  the 
sentimental  public  in  much  the  old  Victorian 
fashion  or  to  follow  the  Barbizon  tradition  in 
landscape  with  unassuming  reverence.  But  the 
bigger  men  have  been  ever  abreast  of  the  times, 
striving  to  render  sensation,  eager  to  shock  the 
eye  into  recognition  of  an  unsuspected  beauty,  to 
hold  the  mind  with  a  thrill  of  new  interest  or  to 
lead  it  down  a  moonlit  lane  of  fanciful  suggestion. 
When  from  the  proper  perspective  the  annals  of 
the  period  are  written,  the  names  of  an  amazing 
host  of  talented  painters  will  have  to  be  reckoned 
with.  There  have  been  romancers  and  sym- 
bolists, decorators  of  surfaces  great  and  small, 
clever  and  concise  analysts  of  outdoor  and  indoor 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING         55 
light,  of  men  and  women  of  all  classes  and  types 
of  woods  and  fields  in  every  season,  of  city  streets 
and    rock-bound    coasts.    Art    has    been    inde- 
pendent and  irrepressible.     Painters  have  worked 
side  by  side  along  widely  divergent  lines  and  each 
man  true  to  his  own  philosophy.     In   this  way 
our  children's  children  shall  know  us,  the  many- 
sidedness   of  our   lives,    the    complex    diversities 
of  our  interests,  as  perhaps  no  other  age  has  ever 
been  known  before.     Yet  through  all  this  varied 
achievement    a    single    spirit    has    been    all    per- 
vasive, a  spirit  of  joy  in  painting  for  painting's 
sake,  in  the  successful  performance  of  tricks    in 
the  overcoming  of  self-imposed  difficulties,  in 'the 
production  of  subtle    ind  novel  effects,  in  all  the 
excitements  of  virtuosity.     Painters  are  in  danger 
now-a-days  of  forgetting  that  tiie  best  art  is  "the 
middle  quality  between  a  thought  and  a  thing." 
Such  mystical  dreamers  as  Matthew  Maris  have 
left  us  nothing  but  the  thought,  all  too  subtly 
suggested  for  the  sake  of  a  special  sort  of  beauty. 
Such    unemotional    observers    as    Claude    Monet 
have  left  us  nothing  but  the  thing,  all  too  plainly 
presented  for  the  sake  of  a  special  sort  of  truth. 
But    the    union  — the    union    of   that    which    is 
nature  with  that  which  is  exclusively  human,  this 
essential  compromise,   modern   art   seems  for  the 
most  part  too  self-conscious,  too  self-sufficient,  to 
ever  quite  attain. 

Objectivity  is  the   main  characteristic  of  the 
contemporary  naturalists,  and  this  is  true  of  the 


rr 


S6        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

portrait  painters,  the  painters  of  genre,  and  of 
landscape.  John  S.  Sargent  is  certainly  one  of 
the  great  artists  of  all  time.  He  has  been  likened 
to  Velasquez  and  the  influence  of  that  master  is 
indeed  apparent.  There  is,  however,  in  Sargent, 
as  in  so  many  of  his  contemporaries,  the  display 
of  "  bravura "  in  sheer  pride  of  performance  which 
one  never  notices  in  the  more  serious  art  of  the 
great  Spaniard.  There  is  more  real  affinity  to 
Hals,  whose  impulsive  modelling  by  the  brush  is 
at  once  remembered,  also  that  swift,  unhesitating 
capture  of  the  first  flash  of  impression.  Sargent, 
it  is  true,  blurts  out  his  likes  and  dislikes,  showing 
for  example,  the  dismal  pride  that  clings  to  the 
fag  ends  of  ancient  families  or  ushering  in  with 
mock  dignity  the  aristocracy  of  sudden  wealth. 
When  his  subjects  interest  him  as  did  Coventry 
Patmore  and  dear  little  Beatrice  Goelet  he  makes 
them  deeply  appealing.  When,  however,  they 
bore  or  irritate  him  he  attends  to  it  that  all  who 
see  his  pictures  shall  share  his  uncomplimentary 
impressions.  Yet  he  never  paints  what  he  does 
not  actually  see.  If  there  is  a  mask  of  false 
pretences  between  him  and  his  sitter,  he  will  not 
attempt  to  penetrate  it,  choosing  rather  to  paint 
it  in  with  particular  care. 

This  objectivity  of  vision  is  even  more  a 
characteristic  of  our  American  landscape  painters, 
many  of  whom  delight  in  the  depiction  of  the 
most  uninteresting  scenery.  E.  W.  Redfield 
paints  little  else  than  the  slushy  roads,  the  flat 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING         57 

and  barren  fields,  the  squat,  crude  houses,  within 
a  short  distance  of  the  Delaware  River.    Yet  his 
wintry  weather  is  so  marvellously  true  that  we 
seem  to  breathe  frosty,  tingling  air,  and  hear  the 
crunch  of  crusted  snow  under  our  boots.     In  the 
Metropolitan    Museum    there"  is    an    important 
example  of  the  work  of  George  Bellows,  a  young 
man   of  great    talent   all   too   often   misapplied. 
The  picture  is  called  "Up  the  Hudson"  but  a 
better  title  would   have  been  "March   Winds." 
The  air  seems  vibrant  with  a  passionate  gust, 
the  kind  that  stings  and  roars  in  passing.     Yet 
there  is   no  over-accentuation,  no   bending  tree- 
tops,  no  blown  skirts.     From  behind  a  cloud  the 
sun  has  re-appeared,  although  part  of  the  river 
and  the  farther  shore  are  still  in  shadow.    The 
foreground  stands  out  almost  depressingly  clear 
in  the  thin  air  and  hard,  cold  light.   A  sleek  black 
locomotive  has  just  burst  into  sight  from  around 
a  curve,   and   steaming  briskly  in   the  opposite 
direction  a  merry  little  tug  works  its  willing  way 
up  stream,  while  the  white  caps  sparkle  and  the 
wind  roars.    At  just  such  a  place,  in  just  such 
weather,  we  have  experienced  just  such  an  emo- 
tion.   Or  is  it  only  a  sensation?   There  is  a  wholly 
unexpected  beauty  in  such  plain  speaking.    The 
illusion  stares  us  rudely  in  the  face  until  it  be- 
comes almost  disquieting  — yet  the  very  candour 
of  the    language   is   in    its  favour.     We  end  by 
approving  of  it  for  its  "confounded  cleverness." 
This     wholesome     objectivity,    derived     from 


i 


t>  1 1 


58        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Courbet,   has    been    subjected    to    innumerable 
experiments  and  adventures.     Manet  was  among 
the    first    in    this    field.     From    portraiture   of  a 
distinguished    quality    reminiscent    of   Hals    and 
Goya,  he  turned  in  later  years  to  the  study  of 
light  and  the  new,  high-keyed  palette,  and  soon 
became   absorbed   in   such   problems  as  sunlight 
filtered  through  foliage  upon  white  dresses  and 
black  hats,  or  the  artificial  illumination  of  ball- 
rooms and  theatres.     To  him  and  to  Degas,  who 
with   classic   grace,   Japanese   waywardness,   and 
Gallic   irony,   celebrated   the   ballet   girl,  we  are 
indebted  for  more  than  the  mere  outward  sem- 
blance of  Paris,  rather  the  spectacle  of  modern 
life   as   seen   through   the   modern   temperament. 
Besnard  has  kept  bright  the  traditions  of  Manet 
and  Degas.     He  will  paint  you  the  darkness  of  an 
amphitheatre   contrasted   with   the  glare  on   the 
stage.     Then   again   he  will   display  the  curious 
efiect  of  morning  sunlight  from  an  unseen  window 
reflected  on  one  side  of  a  woman's  body,  while  the 
other  side  catches  the  flickering  gleam  of  firelight 
from  an  unseen  hearth.     Such  trick  pictures  have 
a  certain  fascination.    Of  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt.     One  man   I  know  posts  himself  on  the 
top  of  a  very  tall  building  which  stands  on  the 
top  of  a  very  tall  hill.     From  this  eminence  he 
dares  to  paint  the  snow-covered  roofs  of  houses  a 
hundred    feet    below.     Not    satisfied    with    the 
difficulties  of  the  point  of  view,  he  selects  that 
baffling  half-hour,  just  before  a  winter  night  sets 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING         59 

in,  when  the  feeble,  blinking  yellow  lights  over  a 
city  seem  to  flicker  and  fade  in  the  gray  and 
stifling  gloom.    This  is  objectivity  becoming  un- 
wholesome  since    no   beauty    can    come    of    it 
unless  we  concede  beauty  to  all  things  skilfully 
handled.     When  art  is  made  into  a  science  it  loses 
its   own   identity.     As   that   thorough   modernist 
George    Moore    acknowledged,  "great    art    sees, 
dreams,  expresses  but  reasons  never,  never  calcu- 
lates."   Calculation,  he  declared,  was  a  sure  sign 
of  decadence  in  pictorial  creation.     Now  Claude 
Monet   was  himself  a   great   master   whose   en- 
thusiasm  for  the   truth  of  aerial  vibration   was 
almost  lyrical,  almost  sun-worship.     Yet  the  im- 
portant   system    he    discovered    actuated    such 
extremists  as  Seurat  and  Signac  to  multicoloured 
stitches  guaranteed  to  make  the  air  vibrate  with 
accuracy.     I  really  believe  that  it  was  a  reaction 
from  this  excessive  objectivity  that  induced  such 
unbalanced  fanatics  as  Cezanne  and  Van  Gogh  to 
imagine    that    they   saw    nature    subjectively   in 
cubes  and  ovals,  and  the  half  savage  Gauguin  to 
return  altogether  to  savagery  in  order  to  free  his 
ego  from   the  complications  and  calculations  of 
science.     The  incoherent  designs  of  the  Cubists 
and  the  Futurists  followed  these  men  in  logical 
succession. 

The  creative  mind  is  apt  to  be  always  in  a 
ferment  of  revolt  against  whatever  mental  fashion 
or  convention  happens  to  be  prevailing.  Revolu- 
tions in   the  style  of  painting  are   the  natural 


l<  tl 


60        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

consequence   of  the    perfectly   normal   desire   of 
painters    to    attract    attention    to   their   hitherto 
neglected  talents.    When  a  painter  realizes  that  he 
cannot  hope  to  compete  with  the  past,  he  falls 
back  upon  the  consoling  thought  that  at  least  he 
may  anticipate  the  future.     There  have  always 
been   Futurists  because  there  have  always  been 
failures;     also,    let    me   hasten    to    add,    because 
change  is  necessary  to  life  —  art  stagnating  when 
invention    stands    still.     Yet    change    does    not 
necessarily   mean   progress,   and   the   art   of   the 
future  is  not    necessarily  an  advance   upon  the 
art  of  the  past.     The  history  of  art  is  a  history 
of  reactions.     A   reaction   from  either  genuinely 
primitive   or   pseudo-primitive   crudity  will   tend 
to  bring  us  back  to  culture,  its  complexities  and 
refinements.     A  Renaissance  is  apt  to  degenerate 
into  an  eclectic  period  impotent  to  invent  on  its 
own    account.     Consequently    new    initiative    is 
needed     and     the     Futurists    promptly    appear. 
But  with  each  revolt  against  outworn  convention 
a  new  convention  is  sure  to  be  established  —  and 
so  school  succeeds  school  and  the  cycles  of  reac- 
tion go  round.     Time  winnows  the  wheat  from 
the  chaff,  for  individuals  are  greater  than  schools 
and  their  systems  and  revolutions.     Time  saves 
for  us  the  Gothic  craftsmen  who,  like  children, 
emerged  so  long  ago  from  their  cloistered  retreat 
into  a  new  and  busy  world;    in  whose  pictures 
naturally  subject  was  supreme.     Time  saves  for 
us  the  great  men  of  the  great  epochs  that  came 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING  6i 

after,  when  once  appreciation  had  grown  out  of 
perception;    men  who,  with  leisure,  learned  how 
to  select   beauty  and  to  dream  dreams  and  to 
evoke  romance,  and  who  painted  for  the  glory  of 
God,  and  the  joy  of  life  and  even  for  the  joy  of 
the  painting.     But  Time  relentlessly  discards  the 
men  of  the  decadence  of  stagnation   who  obey 
laws  without  thinking  and  imitate  what  has  gone 
before  — weak    from    overmuch    knowledge    and 
humility.     And  it  rejects  with  scorn  the  claims  to 
consideration  of  those  charlatans  who  imitate,  not 
the  best  but  the  worst  forms  and  colours  that  the 
hand  of  man  can  devise.     But  let  us  return  to 
our  story  of  revolutions  and  reactions. 

Italy  was  the  fashion  until  Watteau  adapted 
the  Ita'lian  idyll   to   French   taste  and   his  own 
intimate  emotion.     A\Tien  the  French  Revolution 
had  swept  aside  the  prettiness  that  had  degener- 
ated into  a  convention  with  Watteau's  imitators, 
the  Consulate  and  the  Empire  set  up  instead,  for 
the    guidance    of    artists,    the    sterner    forms    of 
Roman  and  Greek  statues;    a  formidable  revival 
of  classic   outlines   and   imposing   subjects   from 
history  which  left  no  room  for  the  personal  im- 
pression.    It    was    in    fierce   revolt    against    this 
depressing  scholasticism  that  Delacroix  defied  the 
rule  of  Ingres  and  asserted  the  need  of  freedom 
for  the  imagination.     But  his  paintings  were  in 
their   turn   discovered   to   be   too  literary  —  still 
too  dependent  upon  subject  for  inspiration,  like 
the  novels  of  Scott  and  the  poems  of  Byron.    It 


ii 


I  i* 


62        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

was  Constable  who  re-discovered  the  romance  of 
reality  which  Vermeer  had  known,  and  Constable 
it  was  who  fathered  the  great  Barbizon  masters 
of  France.     Then  came  a  blunt,  coarse  peasant 
named  Courbet,  who  said  in  effect,  "the  romance 
of    reality    be    damned!    Get    down    to    facts." 
Thus  he  ushered  in  the  uncompromising  Natural- 
ists and  their  descendants  the  Optical  Illusionists. 
As  I  have  already  observed,  Monet  was  a  great 
master,  but   light   was   his  obsession,  and   when 
once  his  theory  of  sunspots  had  been  exaggerated 
by  extremists,  his  fine,  strong  art  degenerated  into 
a  mean  little  science.     From  this  orgy  of  objec- 
tivity reaction  set  in,  and  behold  the  present  orgy 
of  the  subjective  at  the  International  Exhibition. 
Between    the    stitches   of   Signac    and    cubes   of 
Picabia    there    may    seem    to    be    a    superficial 
resemblance  but  there  is  really  a  world  of  differ- 
ence.    When   Signac  paints  the   Bay  of  Naples, 
the  stitches  describe  the  rotary  motion  of  the  air 
as    sensed    by   the   optic    nerve.     When    Picabia 
treats  the  same  subject  his  cubes  do  not  refer  to 
the  atmosphere  in  relation  to  any  nerve.     They 
express  the  state  of  mind  into  which  he  is  plunged 
upon   observing   the    Bay   of  Naples   under   the 
stress    of    heaven    only    knows    what     hideous 
circumstance. 

That  the  Cubists  are  doing  something  new 
cannot  be  denied,  although  just  what  it  is  that 
they  are  doing  no  one  has  yet  perceived.  Seen 
with  sufficient  sympathy,  might  not  these  visions 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING         63 

symbolize  the  chaos  before  creation  or  the  crash 
at  the  end  of  everything?    One  picture  looked  to 
me  Uke  the  wreck  of  an  aeroplane,  another  some- 
thing like  a  landslide,  a  third  very  like  a  bad 
dream,   perhaps  a  carpenter's  nightmare  of  ten 
thousand   splintered   shingles.     But  no,  the  first 
was   entitled  "Portrait   of  a  Man,"  the   second 
"Religious   Procession  in  Seville,"  the  third  "A 
Nude  Descending  a  Staircase."    In  the  newspaper 
the  other  day  I  read  Mr.  Picabia's  explanation  of 
these  mysteries.     "The  objectivity,"  he  says,  "of 
the  subjectivity  is  in  every  case  superinduced  by 
the  original  sensation."    At  the  exhibition  it  was 
interesting  to  look  at  the  people.    Occasionally  I 
detected  a  sly  smile  or  a  suppressed  giggle,  but 
for  the  most  part  a  pitiful  struggle  was  going  on 
to  find   sense   in   the  nonsense,   to  discover  the 
connexion    between    the    titles  in   the   catalogue 
and  the  frenzied  cubes  and  colours  on  the  walls. 
One  such  picture  would  have  relegated  its  creator 
to  a  very  private  sanatorium.     But  a  hundred 
and  more!    Evidently  an  important  movement  I 
Evidently  to  be  taken  in  all  seriousness!    And  so 
they  stood  about  agonizing  themselves  into  the 
frame  of  mind  which  in  the  end  made  everything 
quite  clear  to  them,  and  the  complicated  emotions 
of  the  Cubists  their  emotions  no  less.     May  the 
Lord   temper  to  them  their  afliiction!    And   all 
the  while  I  could  well  imagine  the  perpetrators  of 
the  little  joke  watching  the  result  of  their  labours 
with  satisfaction  —  winking  the  other  eye,  quite 


II 


I  I'l 


t«  i> 


64        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
weak  from  excessive  laughter.     But  to  the  public 
—  the  philosophy  of  cubes  is  made  to  seem  ever 
so  serious.     We  are  told  that  in  order  to  express 
our  modern  consciousness  we  must  rid  ourselves 
of  every  impression,  have  done  with  every  mem- 
ory  of  nature    and    other   pictures,    and    simply 
confess  frankly  and  without  bashfulness,  what  it 
IS  we  fed  when  we  neither  see  nor  think  of  any- 
thmg  m  particular.     What  we  feel  may  be  chaos 
So  much  the  better.     It  is  the  awful  chaos  before 
the  creation  of  "the  art  of  the  future." 

The  movement  is  not  new.     It  is  in  its  last 
decrepitude.     It  is  not   a   beginning.     It   is  the 
end  of  a  reaction  against  impersonal  truth-telling 
m  pictures  that  reached  its  limit  (for  the  present) 
m    Courbet,    Manet,    and    Monet,    and    against 
subjective  aestheticism  in  pictures  that  could  go 
no  farther  (for  the  present)  than  the  Japanesque 
arrangements"  of  Whistler  and  the  stained  glass 
beatitudes    of  the  pre-Raphaelites.     After  these 
men  decadence  set  in.    Then  it  was  that   Paul 
Cezanne  decided  that  painters  were  becoming  too 
unemotional  and  scientific  in  their  conception  of 
truth,  and  too  effeminate  or  too  literary  in  their 
conception   of  beauty.     He   and   Van   Gogh   de- 
termined to  lay  the  foundations  for  the  "art  of 
the  future,"  which  was  to  be  an  art  of  personal 
expression  —  beginning  as  in  childhood,  with  the 
most  naive  exclamations  of  surprise  upon  behold- 
mg  the  most  homely  and  familiar  objects.     To 
this  infantile  point  of  view  — free  from  all  preju- 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING         65 

dice     and     preconception  —  they     trained     their 
vision,  and  the  deliberate  crudities  they  created 
h-J    so    unmistakable    a    quality   of    elemental 
frankness  that  young  revolutionists  dreamed  of 
returning  through  this  art  to  the  secret  of  Giotto's 
simplicity   whcrefrom    to   begin    all    over    again. 
There  were  artists  much  bigger  than  these  fanatics 
who  all  unconsciously  abetted  the  Futurist  affec- 
tations   and    exaggerations.     I     have    in    mind 
Rodin's  return  to  Gothic  directness  of  emotion, 
Monticelli's  return  to  unrepresentative  ornament, 
Puvis   de   Chavanne's   return   to   Greek   rhythm 
and  Primitive  innocence,  as  seen  through  yearning, 
niodern   eyes,   finally   Renoir,   who  though   asso- 
ciated with  the  Luminarists,  was  far  from  being 
an  impersonal   observer   but   one   who   saw   the 
Parisian  world,  haut-monde  and  demi-monde  in 
a   shimmer  of   vivid   colours    symbolical    of   his 
gaily    emotional    temperament.    All    these    men 
were  great  in  their  own  work,  but  injurious  to 
little  men  inclined  to  be  lawless  and  desirous  of 
notoriety.    The    present   decadence   then    set   in 
with  Cezanne  and  Van  Gogh  and  Gauguin,  with 
Moreau,   and  Conder   and   Beardsley.     Drawing 
was  to  be  as  free  as  the  thought  that  guides  it, 
and  emotion  free  from  all  restraint  of  knowledge. 
The  fallacy  of  such  expression  was  obvious.    This 
was  no  return  to  nature.     Instead  of  devotion  to 
the   great   masters   of   the   past,    to   the    Greek 
standard  of  form,  the  Venetian  standard  of  colour, 
the    Velasquez    standard    of   values,    the    Dutch 


66        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

standard   of  surface   quality,    these    men   harked 
back    instead    to    Primitive    models,    to    Gothic 
gargoyles    and    monastic    missals,    to    Egyptian 
carvmgs  and  Indian  carpets,  to  Persian  miniatures 
and    Chmese    embroideries,    even    to    Polynesian 
textiles.     Finally  with   Matisse  the  degeneration 
of    this    so-called    "expressionism"    reached    its 
bottom.     Certainly   this    person   creates   patterns 
unworthy  of  the  mere  ignorance  of  little  children 
and  benighted  savages,  patterns  not  only  crude 
but  deliberately  false  and  at   times  insanely  de- 
praved. 

But  we  need  not  tremble  for  the  future  of  art 
in  America  because  of  the  International  Exhibi- 
tion of  Modern  Art  and  the  widespread  excite- 
ment It  has  created.     All  shall  be  for  the  best 
By   contrast   with    the   aberrations   of  these   ex- 
tremists from  abroad,  what  now  seems  too  radical 
m   the  work  of  many  vital  and  genuinely  pro- 
gressive painters  will  appear  safe  and  sane.     As 
for  our  more  timid   painters,   the  men  hitherto 
inclined  to  self-restraint  and  strict  adherence  to 
popular   demand,    they  will   now   be   spurred    to 
more  independence  and  abandonment  of  mood  by 
the  knowledge  that  even  monstrous  things  can  be 
perpetrated   upon  the  good-nature  of  unthinking 
people,  who  are  now  apparently  eager  to  appre- 
ciate the  various  aspirations  of  art,  and  are  simply 
in   dire   need   of  being   instructed   to   distinguish 
between  the  false  and  the  true.     Reaction  to  a 
period  of  sensitive  aestheticism  and   sound  intel- 


REVOLUTIONS  IN  PAINTING  67 

lectuality  seems  inevitable.    There  will  be,  unless 
I  am  much  mistaken,  a  return,  if  not  to  Classic 
formula,  at  least  to  a  classic  respect  for  form  and 
to   classic   standards   of  beauty   that   are   never 
outworn,     though     forever     changing    with     the 
changes  in  our  lives,  and  the  inevitable  reactions. 
Of  course,  we  shall  not  lose  the  value  of  what  we 
have  so  recently  gained,  the  recognition  of  beauty 
in  modern  life,  even  its  momentary  appearances, 
a  palette  true  to  the  lights  and  darks  of  the  all- 
pervading  atmosphere,  the  mastery  of  simplifica- 
tion and  synthesis,  the  personal  way  of  seeing  and 
recording  vison  that  constitutes  what  we  mean  by 
the   word    "style."     Subjects   will   soon    be   once 
again   of  real   importance  to   pictures,   although 
they   will   have   to   be   subtly   suggestive   rather 
than  tediously  descriptive  as  in  the  olden  days. 
For  instance,  we  need  no  longer  go  to  the  Orient 
to   be   Orientalists.     With   sufficient    insight   and 
imagination  we  can  find  Oriental  suggestions  in 
chance  observations  of  life  close  at  hand.     The 
landscapes   of  Augustus   John    painted    in    Pro- 
vence  and  even  in  Wales  have  that   disturbing 
brilliancy  of   opposed   tones  of   deep   blues   and 
pale  greens  and  crushed-strawberry  pinks  —  which 
suggest   the   backgrounds   of  Persian    miniatures. 
Several  American  painters  have  recently  evoked 
for  me  —  not  the  memory  of  Eastern  art  but  the 
Eastern  colour-dream  in  the  abstract.     And  they 
have,  almost  accidentally,  happened  upon  this  fra- 
grant charm  of  suggestion  in  the  midst  of  the 


11 


!•    > 


68        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
most    matter-of-fact    observations    of    things    as 
they  are.    Jerome  Myers  discovered  that  a  corner 
of  the  New  York  Ghetto  could  be  easily  trans- 
figured   by    sunset-haze    into    a    market    city   of 
Arabia.     George    Woodbury   found    a    swimming 
hole  where  the  water  is  peacock  blue  and   the 
rocks  golden  brown,  that  would  easily  transport 
the  mmd  to  the  haunts  of  thieves  in  the  Arabian 
Nights    by  merely   hollowing   the    rocks    into    a 
cave    and    supplying    the    necessary    touches    of 
scarlet   by  the   caps    of  girls    bathing.     At  the 
Sprmg  Academy  a  prize  was  awarded  to  Gifford 
Beal   for  a  picture  entitled  "The  Elephants  are 
Commg."     In   all  magnificence  they  emerge  into 
strong  sunlight  from  the  shadow  of  a  great  tent 
and   although   it   is  only  a  circus  tent   and   the 
gorgeous  trappings  are  much  the  worse  for  wear 
yet  the  suggestion   is  of  India   and   of  a  great 
Rajah's  encampment.     I  speak  of  these  pictures 
because  they  illustrate,  for  the  moment's  need,' 
the  combined  qualities  of  personal  impressionism 
and  decorative  imagination  which  I  feel  sure  will 
characterize  the  real  "art  of  the  future."    It  is 
significant    that    none    of    these    pictures    were 
painted  by  romanticists  or  colourists.     All  these 
men  are  realists  who  just  chanced  to  be  imagina- 
tive and  decorative  in  spite  of  themselves. 

In  the  steady  upward  progress  of  art  in  this 
country  to  the  great  Renaissance  that  is  surely 
comtng  we  need  none  of  this  sensationalism,  so 
recently  imported  from  the  old  world.     What  we 


REVOLUTTONS  IN  PAINTING         69 

need    is    the    inspi-         self-reliance    of   our   own 
American   masters,    ^^orge   Inness   and    Winslow 
Homer  — men  who  dared  to  be  true  to  Nature 
and  to  their  own  dreams,  above  and  beyond  the 
agitation  of  the  Schools  and   their  little  revolu- 
tions, consecrated  always  to  those  special  beauties 
of  the   visible   world   which   particularly  thrilled 
their  souls.     Truth  in  painting  they  recognized  as 
the  painter's  personal  conception  of  nature's  char- 
acter. Beauty  as  the  painter's  personal  selection  of 
nature's  enchantment,  Art  as  the  finished  product, 
created  from  Nature's  raw  materials,  to  the  end 
that  a  richer  life  might  result.     For  that  is  the 
purpose  of  art;    not  art  for  the  sake  of  art,  cer- 
tainly not  art  for  the  sake  of  sensation,  but  art 
that  will  stimulate  in  us  a  deeper  appreciation  of 
the  glorious  privilege  of  living. 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES 

NATIONS,  like  individuals,  have  char- 
acters  of  their   own.    Just    as    the 
character  of  an  individual  is  moulded 
by  influences  that  have  entered  his 
being  before  birth  or  touched  his  life  in  passing, 
so  the  character  of  a  nation  represents  the  com- 
posite  mind,  temperament  and  experience  of  its 
people.     Since    it   is   the    acknowledged  function 
of  art  to  express  the  character  of  life,  it  follows 
that,  if  net  the  most  successful  in  execution,  at 
least  the  most  significant  in  conception,  will  be 
that  art  which  represents  not    the  few  but  the 
many,  and   depicts  the   mental   life   not  of  any 
one   class   but   of  a  whole  nation.     Technically 
the  greatest  perfection  of  workmanship  has  fre- 
quently been  attained  in  periods  when  art  was  a 
matter  of  patrician  patronage  conveying  the  pa- 
trician viewpoint  with  all  its  implied  dogma.     But 
in-so-far  as  there  is  any  truth  in  the  saying  that 
art  is  the  expression  of  life,  the  one-sidedness  of 
so  specialized  and  conventionalized  an  expression 
as  we  find  in  periods  when  the  people's  point  of 
view  is  of  no  consequence,  must  detract  from  its 
deeper  significance.     The  greatest  epochs  of  artis- 
tic expression  have  actually  been  those  in  which 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  71 

nations  were  permeated  through  and  through  with 
the  sense  of  beauty  and  the  value  of  their  own 
minds   and   moods.     True   nationality   in   art   is 
only  possible  when  the  people  have  the  oppor- 
tunity and  encouragement  to  express  themselves,  free 
from  any  mental  reservation  as  to  the  adequacy  or 
importance   of   their   own    point   of   view.    The 
subjection  of  an  artist,  either  voluntary  or  com- 
pulsory, to  any  power,  temporal  or  ecclesiastical, 
simply  means  that  he  is  content  to  submerge  his 
own  craving  for  self-expression  in  order  to  supply 
a  demand.     Since   the   integrity  of  national   art 
depends  upon  the  creative  integrity  of  the  individ- 
uals that  make  up  a  nation,  then  the  artist  who 
follows  the  tradition  of  a  class  or  obeys  the  fash- 
ion of  a  cult  is  really  less  national  in  his  aim  than 
the  artist  who  just  works  for  himself  and  himself 
alone. 

Never  before  or  since  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries  in  Italy  has  there  been  a  nation-wide 
interest  and  activity  in  the  making  of  beautiful 
things.  Never  before  or  since  have  art  and  life 
been  closely  related.  The  best  pictures  were 
full  of  subject  matter,  yet  true  by  instinct  to 
the  unity  of  impression  demanded  by  aesthetic 
principle.  Art  was  the  language  of  all  people, 
high  and  low.  There  was  no  dream  too  lofty  and 
abstract,  no  detail  of  life  too  insignificant  for 
depiction.  No  prince  nor  pope  was  too  powerful 
a  force  in  the  world  of  action  to  disdain  the  crea- 
tions of  the  humblest  dreamer,  and  if  the  Church 


i 


If 


!i 


•M' 


72        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

was   chiefly  the    patron    of   art   it  was   because 
art  was    genuinely  the  passion    of   the  Church. 
What  more  vivid  record  could  have  been  made  of 
the    brilliant    semi-oriental    pageantry   of  life   in 
fifteenth-century  Venice   than  we  behold   in   the 
pictorial   stories  of  Carpaccio,   or  of  the  quaint 
mysticism   and    naive   classicism   of   Florence   at 
the   same   period,    as   embodied   in   the   pictorial 
fables  of  Piero  di  Cosimo.     Venice  was  sea-faring 
and  prosperous.     Consequently  her  art  was  ma- 
terialistic and  sumptuously  decorative.     Florence 
was  the  seat  of  mediaeval  and  classical  learning. 
Consequently  her  art  was  a  blend  of  these  warring 
intellectual  elements.     And  yet,  in  spite  of  these 
separate  nationalities  throughout   the   Peninsula, 
art  was  a   privilege  which   belonged   everywhere 
to  the  people,  instructing  their  minds,  inspiring 
their   religion,  giving  them   the  opportunity   for 
the   exchange   of  observations  and   ideas,   which 
books,  magazines  and  newspapers  do  to-day. 

However,  in  spite  of  its  true  democracy  of  art 
the  Italian  Renaissance  indirectly  exerted  a  bane- 
ful influence  which  in  the  end  made  art  anything 
but  democratic.  So  great  had  been  the  achieve- 
ment, that  the  less  imaginative  ages  which  fol- 
lowed, despaired  of  improvement  and  consequently 
set  to  work  either  to  copy  revered  models  or 
to  outshine  them  in  grandeur  of  subject-matter. 
There  was  much  talk  about  the  Ideal,  and  the 
search  for  it,  as  if  such  a  thing  could  ever  be 
found   on   this  earth   even   in   Greece   or  Italy. 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  73 

This  scholasticism  required  leisure  to  travel  and 
the  culture  consequent  upon  study,  opportunities 
denied   to   all   save   the   upper   classes.     And   so 
after  a  depressing  decadence  through  the  seven- 
teenth  century   in   Italy  and    France   and   even 
England,  eighteenth-century  art   became   a   flat- 
tering servant  of  royalty,  veneered  with  elegance 
and  love  of  the  "grand  manner."     Such  frippery 
rumed   the  talent  of  all  but  the  very  greatest 
It   must   be   admitted,   however,   that   men   like 
Guardi,   Watteau   and,   at   their  best,    Reynolds 
and  Romney,  were  not  only  great  in  spite  of  their 
allegiance  to  the  all  too  insistent  aristocracy  of 
art,   but  were  really,  to  a   certain  extent,  great 
because  of  it.     They  seem  to  have  been  born  for 
the   purpose   of  expressing   the   charm   of  life's 
romantic  comedy  in  the  days  of  minuets  and  duels 
of  silks,  satins  and  perukes  promenading  on  the 
Venice  piazza  and  Pierrot  serenading  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  of  Mrs.  Siddons  posing  as  the  Muse 
of  Tragedy  and  Lady  Hamilton  as  a  Priestess  of 
Bacchus.     If,  as  one  critic  has  written,  the  hum- 
ble labourer  appeared   in  the  eighteenth-century 
picture,  it  was   "basking   in   the  sunlight  among 
domestic  animals  in  a  sweet  little  ivy-clad  cot- 
tage, clean  and  contented,  and  quite  as  inanimate 
as  the  rural  scenery  of  which  he  was  a  painted 
part."      Meanwhile     this     same     labourer     was 
brooding  sullenly  over  his  distressful  grievances 
and  preparing  for  the  great  revolution.     Even  at 
Its  very  best,  with  such  men  as  Guardi,  Watteau, 


74        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Reynolds  and  Romney,  eighteenth-century  art  in 
Europe  was  bounded  by  the  wealth  and  culture 
and  rather  snobbish  mental  attitude  of  the  aris- 
tocracy. It  was  life,  of  course,  a  true  section  of 
it,  but  only  so  much  of  the  world  as  may  be  seen 
in  formal  gardens  through  the  muUioned  windows 
of  country  houses,  only  so  much  as  seemed  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye  of  the  withdrawn  and  supersensi- 
tive leisure  classes. 

A  truly  national  art  must  grow  up  out  of  the 
soil  and  retain  something  of  its  savour.  It  must 
be  as  truly  a  flowering  of  a  nation's  life  as  a 
thought  or  deed  is  a  flowering  of  an  individual's 
spirit.  A  national  art  reflects  national  character, 
and  if  a  nation's  character  is  dormant  or  insincere, 
or  narrowed  by  class  prejudice,  its  art  will  surely 
be  dull  or  artificial  or  bound  by  convention. 
Great  artists  may  be  born  in  epochs  when  na- 
tional art  is  impossible.  It  may  be  that  these 
great  artists  are  handicapped  in  expressing  the 
individuality  of  their  nation  by  some  overwhelm- 
ing foreign  influence  prevalent  in  their  day. 
Rubens  succeeded  in  expressing  Italian  inspira- 
tion with  truly  Flemish  qualities  of  execution,  and 
Watteau  in  adapting  Italian  inspiration  and  Flem- 
ish execution  to  the  exigencies  of  French  taste. 
But,  although  the  original  inspiration  had  been 
potent  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  Italians, 
when  it  passed  to  Flanders  it  became  imbued  with 
the  pungency  of  all  things  exotic,  and  so  only 
suited  to  the  palate  of  the  travelled  aristocracy. 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  75 

and  when  it  was  served  to  France  it  went  straight 
to  the  Court  at  Versailles,  for  who  but  kings  could 
appreciate    flavours   so   piquant    and    recherche? 
But  there  are  always  other  great  painters  who 
reject  foreign  influences  and  are  sufficiently  far- 
sighted   to   perceive  the   esthetic   possibilities  of 
native  subjects  long  before  this  consciousness  has 
dawned  for  the  majority  of  their  people.     Such 
a  man  was  ptasant  Breughel  in  Belgium.     Living 
in  a   period  when  the  honest  aspiring  creations 
of  the   Gothic   centuries  were  being   abandoned, 
and  Italian  influences  absorbed  to  the  death  of 
nationality  in  Flemish  art,  he  held  out  sturdily 
for  the  national  character  and  the  local  inspira- 
tion.    Progress  was  necessary.     Men  had  learned 
to  see  things  in  a  larger  way  than  the  old  illumi- 
nators.    But   it  was  to  the  Gothic  tradition  of 
quaint   curiosity   and  decorative   brightness  that 
Breughel  returned  in  attempting  to  express  na- 
tional life  in  a  national  way. 

But  although  we  see  in  the  poster  art  of  Breu- 
ghel a  conscious  impulse  to  express  national  life 
and  character,  yet  his  attitude  was  still  too  ab- 
stract, too  almost  apologetic  for  its  interest  in 
local  scenery  and  the  familiar  occupations  of 
soldiers  and  peasants.  He  painted,  with  evident 
relish  in  the  novelty  of  his  work,  decorative  types 
of  home  scenery  and  diverting  types  of  fellow- 
countrymen.  But  nationality  is  only  superficially 
typical.  Essentially  it  is  a  matter  of  individual 
character.     This  interest  in  the  separate  existence 


4 


76        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

of  men  and  women  simply  because  of  their  sepa- 
rate manhood  and  womanhood,  this  interest  in  the 
appearance  of  town  and  country,  not  as  back- 
ground, but  for  the  love  of  woods  and  fields,  in 
short,  this  new  aesthetic  point  of  view  was  the 
product  of  a  Northern  civilization  and  of  a  secular 
and  democratic  conception  of  art  which  did  not 
attain  greatness  until  the  Holland  of  the  seven- 
teenth  century.     The  Southern   Renaissance,  for 
all  its  encouragement  of  art  among  the  people, 
had  been  absolutely  a  matter  of  patrician  patron- 
age.    Hence  the  inevitable  conventionalization  of 
pictures  —  the  glorification  of  Church  and  State. 
But  the  time  came  when  Church  and  State  ceased 
to  dictate  to  art.     In  the  first  place  the  Dutch 
government  was  a  popular  one.     Successful  war 
had  made  it  so.     In  the  second  place  there  was 
national   union;    no  warring  factions  and   tribu- 
tary states  as  in  Italy,  each  with  a  national  char- 
acter of  its  own.     It  is  significant  that  the  Dutch 
painters  did  not  depict  scenes  of  war,  but  of  the 
peace  which  followed  victory.     The  Dutch  genius 
for  knowing  its  own  capacities  was  at  once  re- 
vealed —  the  instinct  which  has  made  Dutch  art 
up  to  the  present  day  a  triumph  of  sweet  reason- 
ableness.    The  reformed  church  no  longer  needed 
decoration.     Therefore  the  decorative  impulse  was 
directed  to  the  home.     Art  was  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  princes  and  to  priests.     Therefore  it  was 
independent  —  a  means  of  self-expression  for  the 
people.     Prosperous   and    full    of  assurance,    the 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  77 

swaggering  Dutchmen  relaxed  themselves  after 
their  adventures,  took  their  ease  in  their  inns 
with  the  merriest  companions,  and  delighted  to 
return  to  their  pleasant  houses  and  comfortable 
wives  and  boisterous  children.  It  was  a  good 
world  in  which  they  lived,  and  as  they  neither 
knew  nor  cared  to  bother  about  any  other,  it 
was  their  own  good  world  they  wished  to  see 
reflected  in   pictures. 

Every  self-respecting   Hollander  had   his   por- 
trait  painted   and    groups  were   quite   the  thing 
for  Directors'  Meetings  and  Hunting  Clubs.    Peo- 
ple went  to  Frans  Hals  and  Jan  der  Heist  much 
as  we  now  go  to  the  photographer.     Jan  Steen 
and  Van  Ostade  painted  tavern  life  and  the  fam- 
ily gatherings  of  the  lower  classes.    Adrian  van 
de  Velde  observed  street  corners,  market  places 
and  farmyards  with  a  new  knowledge  of  outdoor 
light  and  changing  weather.     Van  Goyen  sensi- 
tively transcribed  Holland's  moisture-laden  atmo- 
sphere, and  Cuyp  was  in  his  happiest  mood  when 
the  humid  air  was  made  to  shimmer  with  the 
suffusion  of  sunlit  mist  after  an  evening  shower. 
De  Hooghe  was  at  his  best  with  little  vistas  of 
cheerful  rooms,  sunlight  streaming  in  across  the 
checkered  tiles  through  open  doors  and  windows. 
Vermeer's  daylight  was  cooler  and  more  evenly 
diffused,   enveloping  objects   in   a   silvery  lustre. 
Even  more  modern  than  his  interiors  is  the  glori- 
ous "View  of  Delft"  at  the  Hague  — the  direct 
inspiration  of  the  great  Jacob  Maris,  and  certainly 


1 


78 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


one  of  the  two  or  three  supreme  pictures  of  the 
world.  Metsu  and  Terborch  were  less  interested 
in  daylight  than  in  the  material  surroundings  of 
patrician  families.  They  have  never  been  excelled 
in  the  painting  of  vtlvet,  satin,  lace  and  crepe, 
of  armour,  pewter,  glass  and  Oriental  rugs.  In 
striking  contrast  the  great  Rembrandt  saw  life 
not  objectively  but  with  intense  personal  feeling. 
In  him  the  aspiring  quality  of  North  Gothic 
romanticism  transcended  the  blunt,  uncompromis- 
ing realism  of  his  own  race.  Then  there  was 
Ruysdael  with  his  melancholy  —  a  mood  of 
personal  sorrow  intensified  by  Holland's  almost 
oppressive  immensities  of  storm-swept  sky.  In 
revealing  their  own  passionate  souls  these  two 
great  poet-painters  revealed  also  their  nation's 
capacity  for  passion.  But  they  were  not  as  har- 
acteristic  of  their  race  as  the  more  objective 
painters.  Calm  observation  and  sane,  straight- 
forward comment  upon  the  neighbours  at  their 
day's  work,  such  was  the  aim  and  such  the  real 
significance  of  the  Dutch  character  in  art. 


II 

Yet  the  real  significance  of  a  nation's  character 
can  often  be  divined  from  what  has  been  left 
unsaid  about  national  life,  for  this  inner  truth  is 
really  an  invisible  spirit,  a  hidden  light  refracted 
through  many  an  outward  semblance.  Thus  a 
seemingly  superficial  mannerism  of  pictorial  method, 
either  in  decoration  or  representation,  may  be  a 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES 


79 


salient  due  to  national  character,  and  may  give 
us  that  generalized  conception  which  is  all  we  can 
expect  to  receive  from  an  alien  race.  Travellers 
in  distant  lands  are  always  searching  fur  the 
"Local  Colour"  of  the  pi  ices  they  visit,  poking 
for  and  peeping  into  such  intimacies  of  scenery 
and  costume  as  may  contribute  to  a  more  or  less 
decorative  general  impression  that  will  seem  to 
them  tpical  as  the  windows  of  their  minds  are 
opened  back  across  the  years.  Nor  should  this 
local  colour  be  despised.  To  comprehend  this 
elusive  charm  which  so  baffles  his  analysis,  to 
recognize  and,  by  means  of  his  art,  substantiate 
this  peculiar  quality  in  his  native  land  which 
the  artist  feels  to  be  significant  and  is  willing  to 
present  to  foreigners  as  characteristic,  perhaps  sym- 
bolical, this  is  one  of  the  most  important  oppor- 
tunities of  the  maker  of  pictures.  Yet  at  this 
point  doubt  confronts  us.  Is  the  native,  after 
all,  the  man  to  record  the  charm  that  lies  about 
him,  a  charm  to  which,  let  us  hope,  he  uncon- 
sciously contributes?  Is  not  the  charm  largely 
a  matter  of  exotic  strangeness?  Is  not  the  appeal 
of  a  foreign  land,  an  alien  people,  chiefly  a  sensu- 
ous rather  than  a  mental  conception?  To  a 
certain  extent,  yes.  There  are  countless  artist- 
eyes  in  every  nation  blind  to  the  familiar  beauties 
of  home,  eyes  straining  to  see  what  to  them  must 
remain  quite  romantically  unreal.  To  such  eyes 
the  romance  of  reality  is  incomprehensible.  Their 
nation's  charm   is  infinitely  better  expressed   by 


«  II 


MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2) 


1.0 

1^  III  2.8 

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I.I 

^     APPLIED  IIVMGE 


'653    fosi    Main    Street 

Rochester,    Ne*    York         '4609        uSA 

(7)6)    482  -0300  -  Phone 

(^16)    288  -  5969  -  Fo 


8o 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


the  sympathetic  and  enthusiastic  foreigner  and 
his  sketch-book  of  local  colour  and  his  note-book 
of  impressions.  And  yet  sympathy  and  enthus- 
iasm cannot  replace  that  inevitable  self-expression 
which  consciously  or  unconsciously  reveals  just 
where  it  prides  itself  upon  concealing  the  racial 
secret.  We  have  all  seen  water  colours  of  Japan 
by  clever  Western  painters.  Much  of  the  deli- 
cate grace  of  native  art  has  passed  into  these 
pictures.  But  set  their  cleverness  by  the  side  of 
art  that  is  truly  Oriental,  let  us  say  colour  prints 
by  Harunobu,  and  see  how  quickly  they  revert  to 
their  own  type.  No,  by  all  means  let  the  aes- 
thetic note  of  Japan  be  sounded  by  the  Japanese, 
and  of  America  by  the  Americans,  and  every 
nation  that  has  or  hopes  to  have  a  national  art, 
let  it  speak  for  itself.  Let  it  speak  out  with 
pride  of  race  and  a  normal  sensitiveness  to  inherited 
traditions  and  surrounding  influences.  Let  it 
speak  out  with  aggressive  sincerity  and  unself- 
conscious  independence.  Let  it  give  form  to  its 
familiar  life  or  at  least  illustrate  its  own  aesthetic 
taste,  in  either  case  regardless  of  what  other 
nations  are  doing  or  other  ages  have  done. 

We  all  know  that  Japanese  art  is,  in  a  material 
sense,  decorative,  but  we  make  altogether  too 
little  of  the  fact  that  it  is  also  decorative  in 
spirit.  In  other  words,  it  is  imaginative,  sugges- 
tively dressing  up  the  truth  in  costume  of  local 
colour  that  is  often  fantastic  and  generally  taste- 
ful.    The    old    masters    who    followed    Chinese 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES 


8i 


ti.idition  painted  dream  visions,  portraits  and 
landscapes  of  the  indwelling  mind.  In  modern 
times,  with  the  opening  of  her  ports  to  Western  influ- 
ences, Dutch  merchants  brought  to  Japan  their  first 
conception  of  an  art  representative,  not  only  of 
real  life,  but  of  concrete,  individualized  portraits 
and  landscapes.  It  was  unquestionably  this  reve- 
lation from  the  West  that  actuated  the  growth 
of  the  popular  school,  known  as  the  Ukioye  or 
"Mirror  of  the  Passing  World."  The  name  is 
in  itself  significant.  The  Japanese  have  ever 
been  sensitive  to  the  fugitive  nature  of  life's 
appearances.  For  centuries  they  painted  thoughts 
about  the  passage  of  clouds  or  the  flight  of  birds 
across  the  moon.  Now  they  decided  to  paint  not 
thoughts  but  things,  and  to  record  the  transitory 
beauties  of  their  own  life  and  their  own  surround- 
ings. It  was  an  art  of  the  people.  We  are  told 
that  the  colour  prints  now  esteemed  so  highly 
were  sold  for  a  few  yen  and  pasted  on  kitchen 
screens,  as  our  newspaper  supplements  are  to-day. 
Consequently  these  prints  were  despised  by  the 
aristocrats  who  clung  to  their  long-lost  Sung  and 
Kano  inspiration.  Consequently  this  plebeian 
art  is  as  one-sided  in  its  way  as  the  art  of  the 
palaces.  To  comprehend  the  entire  national  char- 
acter it  is  necessary  to  regard  these  separate 
schools  as  the  broken  segments  of  one  aesthetic 
consciousness.  Together  they  express  the  na- 
tional character.  Instead  of  the  Dutch  individ- 
uality in  characterization,  we  find  in  the  colour 


( 'I 


82 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


prints  a  satisfaction  with  generalized  types,  as 
in  Breughel,  and  also  his  general  decorative 
synthesis,  his  pictorial  formula  conveying  a  sense 
of  local  colour  and  of  national  character.  For  us  of  the 
Western  world  the  charm  of  the  colour  prints  is 
partly  a  sensuous  influence  of  absolutely  arbi- 
trary colour  and  design,  partly  a  stimulant  to  our 
curiosity  for  exotic  knowledge  and  to  our  decora- 
tive imagination.  Western  travellers  in  Japan 
invariably  want  to  carry  away  with  them  a  more 
composite  expression  of  Japanese  taste  and  char- 
acter than  the  mere  facts  of  photography  convey. 
Now  the  prints  are  a  commentary  on  the  life 
and  customs  of  the  Japanese  people,  just  at  the 
period  of  their  nation's  awakening  to  Western 
civilization.  It  is  particularly  fortunate  that  as 
works  of  art  they  are  of  such  vivid  attractive- 
ness, for  they  sum  up  not  only  the  truth  at  the 
depths  but  the  charm  on  the  surface  of  all  things 
Japanese. 

Professor  Fenollosa  used  to  say,  in  a  rather 
fanciful  but  very  fascinating  vein  of  reflection, 
that  it  is  to  Japan  we  must  look  for  the  universal 
art  of  the  future,  the  art  which  will  perfectly 
combine  all  that  is  best  in  the  aesthetic  self-expres- 
sion of  Orient  and  Occident.  It  is  quite  true 
that,  set  uniquely  on  the  path  of  traffic  between 
East  and  West,  Japan  is  further  endowed  with 
just  the  receptive  and  constructive  genius  neces- 
sary for  becoming  the  interpreter  of  East  to  West 
and  of  West  to  East.     It  is  just  such  universal 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  83 

scholarship  as  belonged  to  Fenollosa  and  Lafcadio 
Hearn  that  could  bring  about  so  rare  an  amalga- 
mation. Although  personally  I  am  inclined  to 
think  with  Kipling  that: 

East  is  East  and  West  is  West 
And  never  the  twain  shall  meet, 

yet   I   must   acknowledge   that   the   exchange  of 
influences  from  the  opposite  ends  of  the  world 
has  been,  and  will  probably  continue  to  be,  very 
great.     The  School  of  Ukioye  in  Japan,  originated 
by  Dutch  influence,  was  instrumental  in  produc- 
ing a  new  epoch  of  art,  not  only  in  the  Far  East 
but  also  in  Europe  and  America.     To  its  influence 
we  owe  the  modern  arts  of  decorative  illustration 
and  inexpensive  decoration  for  the  people,  which 
have  so  profoundly  affected  national  life  in  the 
arts  and  crafts  devoted  to  domestic  architecture. 
Scarcely  a  single  painter  of  distinction  among  us 
has  failed  to  absorb  consciously  or  unconsciously 
some  element  of  Oriental  aestheticism.     Already 
such  men  as  Kiyonaga,  Harunobu,  Hokusai  and 
Hiroshige  have  attained  positions  of  international 
influence.    These    men    anticipated    the    art    of 
modern  Europe  and  America  and  really  founded 
the    modern    school   of   realistic    painting   repre- 
sented  by  the  work  of  Manet,    Monet,   Renoir 
and  Degas.    The  acknowledged  purpose  of  these 
adventurous  Frenchmen  was  to  mirror  the  pass- 
ing ^orld,  precisely  as  that  had  been  the  aim  of 
the  vagabond  print-and-picture-book  painters  of 


ill 


84 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


'N 


the  previous  century  in  Japan.  In  each  case  the 
people  were  intensely  alive  and  eager  for  some 
new  phase  of  self-expression.  Art  then  as  the 
"sensitive  barometer  of  the  buoyancy  of  a  na- 
tion's spirit"  responded  with  the  formation  of  an 
intensely  individual  and,  therefore,  national  mode 
of  expression.  Three  main  ideas  Japanese  colour 
prints  may  be  said  to  have  taught  Western 
Europe:  (i)  the  passing  show:  how  to  represent 
the  actual  everyday  world  and  its  ephemeral  inter- 
ests of  passing  light  and  life  in  various  ways,  con- 
cise, capricious,  and  suggestive ;  (2)  the  decorative 
imagination:  how  to  make  these  records  of  pass- 
ing impressions  decorative,  as  well  as  representa- 
tive of  the  nation's  daily  life;  in  other  words, 
how  to  find  the  inner  spirit,  the  peculiar  distinc- 
tion of  national  types  and  national  scenery  and 
to  present  these  things  according  to  national  taste; 
(3)  the  decorative  technique:  how  to  make  effec- 
tive patterns  with  the  simplest  means,  emphasiz- 
ing the  numberless  joys  of  colour  schemes  and 
arabesques,  the  expressive  possibilities  of  line 
and  mass,  and  the  value  of  surprises  in  pictur- 
esque invention.  These  ideas  offered  so  refreshing 
a  contrast  to  the  rules  of  the  academies  that  the 
modern  European  progressives  seized  upon  them 
with  avidity  and  from  them  developed  their  own 
sense  of  movement,  of  irregular  space  composi- 
tion, of  pure  colours  juxtaposed  for  freshness  of 
open-air  effect  and  of  decorative  arrangements 
and    designs.      Without    Japanese    prints    there 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  85 

might  never  have  been  the  most  delightful  phase 
of  the  art  of  Whistler,  the  modern  German  poster 
painters,  and  the  school  of  French  draughtsmen 
from  Degas  to  Forain. 

In   Japanese   prints   are   depicted   the   various 
occupations    of    the    people    at  work    and    play, 
the   multicoloured    life   of   the  streets   of   Yedo, 
the  Geisha  dance,  the  tragic  actors,  the  cherry- 
blossom  picnics  by  the  side  of  the  Sumida  River, 
the   tea   houses   that   rest   the   wanderer   on   his 
every    pilgrimage    (over    the    Tokaido    highway) 
through  the  heart  of  old  Japan;  across  rice  fields, 
over    round    bridges,    down    groves    of    swaying 
bamboo  or  avenues  of  twisted  pine.     Harunobu 
was  preeminently  the  colourist.     His  harmonies  of 
apricot   and  green,   and   of  ashy  rose   and   steel 
blue,  idealized   his   observations   of   middle-class 
life.     Hokusai  was  also  a  great  man  for  colour, 
perhaps  his  best  arrangements  being  dark  blue, 
coral   and   apple  green,    and   greenish   blue   and 
straw  yellow.     But  he  was  even  greater  in  his 
humorous   representations   of  a   very   vivid   life. 
With  equal  gusto  he  would  sketch  a  busy  day  in 
a  lumber  yard,  or  four  graceful  girls  leaning  over 
a    balcony  enjoying    the  beauty  of  their  sacred 
mountain  Fujiyama.    Kiyonaga's  women  were  even 
more  knowingly  portrayed,  with  lines   not   only 
decorative,  but  suggestive  of  life  and  character. 
In  one  print  three  girls  are  peering  through  the 
barred  window  of  an  upper  room,  that  is  very  dimly 
illumined,  down  upon  a  moonlit  harbor  and  the 


Ml 


86 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


red  lights  flickering  on  distant  ships.  But  it  is 
Hiroshige  who  most  influenced  modern  Europe 
with  his  valuable  ideas  for  a  decorative  type 
of  realistic  painting.  He  loved  to  sketch  from 
great  heights  and  at  far  distances,  and  he  suc- 
ceeded admirably  in  his  aerial  perspective.  He 
dared  to  attempt  suggesting  all  sorts  of  weather, 
—  for  instance,  the  downpours  of  summer  rain, 
the  fairyland  of  winter  snowflakes,  the  stiff  wind 
that  bends  the  tree-tops  and  baffles  the  progress 
of  pedestrians,  the  tranquil  afterglow  on  the 
horizon,  the  witchery  of  moonlight,  even  the 
glow  of  paper  lanterns,  with  cast  shadows.  In 
one  of  my  favorite  prints  water-buffalo  are  de- 
picted hauling  bales  of  rice  through  a  mountain 
village  in  the  twilight.  The  colour  scheme  is  a 
delicious  one,  warm  blue  and  chocolate.  I  hope 
I  have  sufficiently  indicated  that  although  the 
subjects  of  the  prints  were  taken  from  life,  yet 
the  primary  object  was  ever  held  to  be  decora- 
tion, and  the  colours  were  generally  fantastic. 
No  Oriental  decorator  ever  hesitated  at  blue 
trees  and  red  mountains,  nor  even  at  purple 
cows.  However  naturalistic  the  scenes  depicted 
by  such  men  as  Hiroshige,  their  wholly  arbitrary 
selections  and  arrangements  of  colour  and  line 
reveal  their  appreciation  of  the  truth  that  pic- 
torial art  is,  after  all,  only  a  decorative  convention. 
At  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1875  Japanese  art 
made  a  profound  sensation.  Everything  Japa- 
nese was  declared  fascinating  and  Western  paint- 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  87 

ers  promptly  attempted  to   transmit   the  exotic 
charms    into   their   own   work.     Many   of  them 
succeeded    admirably  in    acquiring    the    piquant, 
pictorial  mannerisms  of  Toyokuni  and  Hiroshige, 
but,  though    ever    so    charming,  their  "Japane- 
series"   need  not  be  taken   too  seriously.     As  I 
have  said,  Japan  was  directly  responsible  for  the 
modern   art   of  decorative   illustration.     Inciden- 
tally it  taught  modern   Europe  many  lessons  in 
art,  especially  the  importance  of  suggestive  single- 
ness of  impressional   effect.     It   is,   however,   to 
artists  who  never  imitated  Japanese  methods  chat 
I  turn  for  the  best  illustration  of  their  beneficent 
guidance,  to  the  men  who,  without  concessions 
to  any  foreign  influence  far  or  near,  sought  to 
mirror  the  passing  world  even  as  Hokusai  had 
done  in  old  Japan.    And  so  I  speak  not  of  Degas 
nor  of  Whistler,  but  of  Renoir,  who,  better  even 
than    Manet    and    Monet,    translated    the    very 
spirit  of  Ukioye  into  nineteenth-century  Parisian. 
As  Camille  Mauclaire  expressed  it  —  "The  race 
speaks    through    Renoir."     He    was    the    most 
French  of  all  painters  —  French  in  his  epicurean 
sensuousness   and   in   his   quaint,   whole-hearted, 
unhesitating    abandon.      From    the    voluptuous- 
ness of   Boucher's  flesh-tones  and    the    fantastic 
playfulness  of  Watteau's  subjects,  though  regard- 
less  of  their   melancholy,    even   from   Chardin's 
delight  in  the  colour  and  texture  of  homely  and 
familiar   objects,   and   from   the   distinction,   the 
style  that  ennobled  the  work  of  all  these  masters. 


88        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Renoir  inherited  the  racial  taste  and  talent  for 
expressing  his  own  pleasant  sense  of  life's  vivac- 
ity. At  the  Luxembourg  we  cannot  fail  to  linger 
as  fascinated  spectators  of  the  open-air  dance 
Renoir  saw  and  recorded  on  the  heights  of  Mont- 
martre.  These  men  and  girls  are  making  the 
most  of  their  holiday,  frolicking  like  children  in 
the  sunlight.  For,  however  vulgar  a  crowd  they 
may  really  have  been,  it  was  as  happy  children 
that  Renoir  chose  to  represent  them,  the  hot 
light  filtering  through  the  leaves,  checkering  the 
ground  with  blue  shadows  and  all  the  air  seeming 
to  vibrate  to  the  eye  surcharged  with  heat  and 
dust  and  the  whirling  rhjrthms  of  the  dancing. 
There  is  a  lot  going  on,  to  be  sure,  but  the  painter 
attempts  no  story-telling,  determined  only  to 
impress  us  with  his  own  vivid  impression  of  the 
moment  depicted,  that  one  moment's  impression 
of  life's  dizzy  joyousness.  We  neither  see  these 
people  with  any  clearness  nor  do  we  judge  them 
with  any  seriousness.  The  mood  is  only  one  of 
colour,  of  emerald  greens  and  strong  enamelled 
blues  and  coral  pinks  blurred  by  a  sense  of  heat 
and  movement.  Well,  that  is  a  very  personal 
summer  mood  of  the  Parisians.  The  race  indeed 
speaks  through  Renoir  in  such  pictures. 

But  to  become  really  familiar  with  the  man 
one  must  go  to  the  Durand-Ruel  private  collec- 
tion in  the  rue  de  Rome.  There  we  partake  of 
his  infectious  good  humour,  his  exhilarating  vital- 
ity, his  gaily  coloured  outbursts  of  rapture  over 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES 


89 


modern  life,  his  delight  in  pretty  girls  on  view 
at  the  opera  or  loafing  on  a  sunlit  tei  .ce,  his 
affection  for  two  children  at  their  piano  lessons, 
the  pleasure  he  takes  in  the  company  of  some 
men  and  women  lunching  up  the  river  on  a  hot 
holiday,  the  fitful  breeze  flapping  the  awnings 
and  the  general  discussion  becoming  of  more 
importance  than  the  dessert.  Anything,  every- 
thing, gave  Renoir  inspiration  for  the  production 
of  rich,  shimmering  colours.  The  more  difficult 
the  subjects  he  attempted,  the  more  insolently 
easy  the  way  he  mastered  them.  Sharing  Monet's 
interest  in  such  things  as  sunlight  and  refraction, 
he  was  almost  as  romantic  as  Monticelli.  In 
later  years  he  painted  landscapes  and  flowers 
just  for  the  sake  of  the  arbitrary  colour  chords 
he  could  make  out  of  them.  His  is  the  luxurious 
spirit  of  romantic  comedy,  and  back  of  all  its 
former  classic  and  its  recent  scientific  detach- 
ment of  vision,  such  is  also  the  real  artistic  spirit 
of  the  French  Nation. 


A 


III 

But  no  national  art  can  be  summed  up  in  the 
work  of  any  one  man,  and  Renoir's  pictures  of 
the  passing  show  no  more  justly  and  compre- 
hensively represent  France  than  Japan  is  rep- 
resented by  the  Ukioye  of  Hokusai.  Every 
national  art  is  a  composite  of  the  art  of  its  most 
sincere  and  racially  typical  artists,  the  men  who 
see  and  feel  as  see  and  feel  the  majority  of  their 


\  i 


i:t 


90        THE   ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
compatriots.     In    Oriental,    European,    even    in 
British  art,  there  is  a  certain  outstanding  quality 
that  enables   us   to  recognize   the  esthetic   taste 
and  talent  of  the  various  nations.     It  would  be 
a    fascinating   study   to   consider   at   length    the 
relation    of  a    country's   social,    intellectual    and 
commercial   life   to  the   character  of  its  artistic 
expression.     One  could    reason   out,  for  example, 
just  how  from  their  predominant  literature  the 
British  have  come  to  desire  household  sentiments 
and   literary   allusions   and   poetic   symbolism   in 
their   pictures,    and    how   from    familiarity   with 
their  own  climate  they  have  developed  their  fine 
feeling  for  cloud  effects  in  landscape;    how  the 
Spaniards  have  been  true,  with  a  few  distinguished 
exceptions,  to  their  cruel  ecclesiastical  traditions 
of  sombre  tones  and  sinister  subjects  with  sensa- 
]l°?^}    ^^^^ures;     how    the    French    are    always 
'•vif'and   bold,  at  their  worst  reckless,  at   their 
best  quick  to  respond  to  a  subtlety  of  sensation 
or  emotion,  full  up  and  bubbling  over  with  taste 
and  temperament;    how.  to  name  but  one  more 
nation,  the  Germans  are  forever  Germans,  coarse, 
fantastic,  self-reliant,  most  successful  with  posters 
that  arrest  the  eye  with  broad  masses  of  startling 
but  effective  colour,  fond  of  romantic  suggestions 
of  native  life   and   legend,  with  old   castles  and 
mediaeval  housetops  and  dark  forests  infested  by 
weird  animals. 

It  is  also  er'.sy  to  recognize  modern  Scandina- 
vian, Belgian  and  Dutch  paintings.     Every  nation 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  91 

seems  to  cling  to  its  national  pictorial  heritage. 
But  how  is  it  with  America  ?  On  all  sides  we  hear 
that  America  is  polyglot,  that  no  national  art  is 
possible  in  a  country  that  never  had  any  real 
infancy,  in  a  civilization  transplanted  full  grown 
from  foreign  lands,  in  a  community  peopled  by 
all  races  and  persistently  alien.  Much  of  all  this 
is  true,  just  as  it  is  also  true  that  whatever  we 
have  had  to  learn  over  again  about  art,  after 
we  cut  ourselves  adrift  from  Mother  England, 
we  learned  from  the  Italians,  the  Germans,  the 
Dutch,  the  French  and  the  Spanish.  But  some- 
thing also  we  have  gained  from  our  own  observa- 
tions and  experiences,  and  that  something  has  been 
national  character,  a  national  way  of  seeing  and 
feeling  and  thinking.  What  we  have  learned  from 
abroad  has  been  merely  technical.  What  we 
have  developed  for  ourselves  has  been  inspira- 
tional. In  the  short  space  of  little  more  than 
two  generations  we  have  produced  a  pictorial 
art  endowed  with  a  brighter  promise  for  the 
future  than  the  art  of  any  other  nation  in  the 
world  at  the  present  time. 

American  art  did  have  its  period  of  infancy. 
It  is  very  true  that  the  culture  of  the  ages  might 
earlier  have  been  acquired  for  the  asking.  But 
with  a  new  continent  of  quite  overpowering 
immensity'  to  develop,  and  a  freshly  won  inde- 
pendence from  the  old  world,  and  a  great  ocean 
between,  it  is  little  wonder  that  our  early  Ameri- 
can artists  shared  the  general  opinion  that  culture 


■.,1 


92        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
was  of  less  importance  than  commerce  and  the 
more  substantial  comforts  of  self-made  civiliza- 
tion.    The  pioneer  and  the  settler,  the  frontiers- 
man   and    the    backwoodsman,  -  these    men    all 
unwittmgly    stamped    the    consciousness    of   the 
early    American    artists    with    their    own    crude 
thoughts    and    brave    spirits.     Art   was   not   yet 
understood  to  be  an  accessory  to  the  joy  of  living 
buch  a  conception  would  have  been  regarded  as 
efFemmate  and  foreign.     Art  was  dimly  supposed 
to  be  an  expression  of  man's  feeling  in  the  pres- 
ence of  nature's  vastness.    Just  as  the  dreamy 
schoolboy   writes   a   poem   on   the    Mountain   of 
Lite,  and  m  attempting  to  explain  the  universe, 
reveals  his  young  mind  bare  and  fallow,  all  the 
Ignorance  and   the  reverence  and  the  expectant 
wonder   of    it,    so    the    early   American    painter 
stood  on  a  mountain-top  and  painted  the  glorious 
panorama  as  far  as  his  eye  could  see.     Perhaps 
he    became    as    philosophical    and    allegorical    as 
the  schoolboy.     Perhaps  he  tried  to  get  every- 
thing mto  his  picture,  to  account  for  every  leaf 
on  the  trees  of  the  farthest  horizon.     It  was  all 
very  bad  painting  and  not  to  be  considered  art 
at  all.     Nevertheless,  it  was  also  very  young  and 
promismg.     The  great  American  school  of  land- 
scape painting  grew  out  of  this  beginning.     Such 
men  as  Martin,  Inness,  Wyant,  and  Homer  passed 
through  their  period  of  primitive  esthetic  excite- 
ment before  they  attained  to  their  clear  compre- 
hension of  art  as  unity  of  expression.    American 


i'l 


t*     ll 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES 


93 


painters  to-day  have  become  cosmopolitan  but 
not  eclectic.  They  are  thoroughly  national.  The 
American  old  masters  pointed  the  way  they  should 
go  and  they  have  followed  them. 

Winslow  Homer  saw  his  opportunity  on  the 
coast  of  Maine.  There  he  lived  the  life  of  a 
hermit,  responding  to  the  ocean's  every  mood, 
thrilling  to  the  epic  of  man  and  the  elements, 
the  age-long  conflict  of  the  rocks  and  the  waves. 
The  Gloucester  fishermen  on  their  reeling  decks, 
in  fog  and  storm  and  shine;  their  life  of  danger 
'on  the  treacherous  sea;  their  womenfolk  on  the 
rocky  purple  headlands,  straining  their  eyes  into 
the  threatening  distance  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  fleet's  home-coming;  —  these  elemental  things 
Homer  knew  how  to  make  soul-stirring.  And 
Inness,  with  the  heart  of  a  great  poet  and  a 
genius  for  colour,  second  to  no  modern  master, 
Inness  saw  into  the  very  soul  of  American  land- 
scape; saw  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  its  maple 
trees  in  the  haze  of  Indian  summer,  the  dramatic 
life  of  its  skies  when  storms  reverberate  in  the 
hills,  the  opulence  of  its  wide  harvest-fields,  the 
desolation  of  its  waste  places,  the  glory  of  sunset 
transfiguring  its  meadows,  the  mellow  poetry  of 
moonrise  beyond  the  warm,  sweet  gloom  of  its 
fragrant  pine  groves  of  the  south.  Buoyancy  of 
normal  healthful  spirit,  free  from  all  constraint  of 
tradition,  and  combined  with  a  natural  frankness, 
and  an  eloquent  enthusiasm,  and  an  ardent  love 
of  life,  these  are  the  qualities  which  Homer  and 


i  •  "'■ 


^' 


i. 


94        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Inness  inherited  from  their  primitive  ancestors 
and  handed  on  to  the  American  painters  of  the 
present  day. 

Upon  this  firm  foundation  of  national  character 
has  now  been   laid  much  culture   and   technical 
training  from   abroad.     Small   men   indeed   have 
become   eclectic   with   overmuch   knowledge   and 
insufl^cient  inspiration.     But  the  larger  men  have 
recognized   the   need   of  recording   our  own   life 
and  landscape  with  our  own  sense  of  beauty  and 
of  truth.     Our  painters  excel  with  colour  and  in 
the  creation  of  all  kinds  of  atmosphere.     Although 
we  make  haste  slowly,  we  are  none  the  less  pro- 
gressive   in    our    art.     The    interiors    of   Tarbell 
are  Vermeer  brought  up  to  date.    American  taste 
is    chiefly    characterized    by    its   moderation,    its 
modification  of  the  good  technical  ideas  origina- 
ted  in  the  studios  of  Europe.     An  attempt  has 
recently  been  made  to  introduce  into  American 
art  libertine  excesses  of  technical  experiment  with 
forms  and   colours.     But  the  American  is  to  be 
trusted.     We  may  invent  and  support  yellow  jour- 
nals, we  may  tolerate  agitators  and  exalt  dema- 
gogues, we  may  allow  all  sorts  of  imposters  to  make 
their  blatant  sensations  and  parade  their  incredi- 
ble claims,  but  we  reserve  our  better  judgment, 
our    sober    second    thought.     Loving    excitement 
all  too  well,  and  demanding  to  be  kept  in  a  state 
of  constant  surprise,  we  even  enjoy  being  shocked, 
and  have  no  time  and  patience  for  subtleties  and 
delicacies   that   do   not   shout   for  our  attention 


NATIONALITY  IN  PICTURES  95 

amid  the  bewilderments  of  modern  life.     Yet  all 
this  is  well  enough   if  we  look  at   it  from  the 
proper  philosophical  distance.     We  are  really  far 
more    sensation-loving   than    sensational.     People 
who  are  rr  illy  turbulent  and  lawless  are  seeking 
notoriety    because    life    bores    them.     They    are 
suffering  from   ennui,  from   enervating   spiritless- 
ness.     There  is  absolutely  none  of  this  dangerous 
element  in  the  American  character.     On  the  con- 
trary, we  love  life  so  much  that  we  have  not  yet 
acquired  the  repose  and  the  well-poised  detach- 
ment   needful    for    contemptuously    disregarding 
what  is  worthless  and  seeking  out  only  what  is 
best.     In  art  we  express  altogether  too  much,  but 
our  expression  is  at  least  invariably  honest  and 
inspired  by  genuine  enthusiasm. 

Everything  points  to  the  coming  of  an  Ameri- 
can Renaissance -our  mingling  of  races,  our 
material  prosperity,  our  wonderland  of  natural 
beauties,  our  steel  mills  and  skyscrapers  fit  for 
glorious  decorations,  our  eagerness  of  invention, 
our  buoyancy  of  spirit,  our  contact  with  nature's 
big  thoughts  and  big  emotions  in  mountain, 
prairie,  harbour  and  forest,  our  moulding  of  the 
elements  to  our  purpose  in  swamp,  desert,  quarry 
and  mine.  We  are  not  as  a  nation  imaginative, 
but  we  are  appreciative  and  sensitively  observant! 
Who  knows  whether  there  shall  not  be  an  Ameri- 
can realist  greater  than  Velasquez.?  If  the  Amer- 
ican Federation  of  Arts  can  unite  all  the  esthetic 
impulses  of  our  people,  if  it  can  impel  them  to 


?>. 


PI 


96        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
strive  together  with  a  common  purpose,  namely, 
the  creation  of  a  national  art,   encouraged   and 
upheld    by   the   national    Government,    then   the 
inevitable  Renaissance  will  be  the  sooner  in  com- 
ing.    Even  now  this  organization  is  doing  excel- 
lent work,  spreading  culture,  diffusing  instruction, 
unobstrusively  inspiring  aesthetic  observation  and 
feeling.     Our  wealth  buys  old  masters,  our  energy 
produces    new    masters,  our   generosity    exhibits 
pictures  new  and  old  from  coast  to  coast.     Be- 
cause our  desire  for  knowledge  extends  even  to 
the  technical  experiments  of  the  foreign  studios 
and  because  our  shrewd  common  sense  helps  us 
to  distinguish  the  ^ood   from   the   bad   when   it 
comes  to  the  point  of  selection,  we  shall  continue 
to  be  at  the  same  time  conservative  and  progress- 
ive.    Not  only  does  America  inherit  the  arts  of 
all  nations  and  of  all  ages,  but  rich  should   be 
the  harvesting  and  exquisite  the  flowering  of  the 
strong,  sound  and  aspiring  American  spirit  from 
the  seeds  of  aesthetic  purpose,  now  so  wisely  and 
so  bountifully  being  sown  in  her  own  native  soil. 


VI 

THE  CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND 
ETCHING 

ONE  of  the  most  propitious  signs  of  our 
artistic  awakening  may  be  recognized 
in  our  new  acknowledgment  of  ele- 
ments pictorial  and  even  poetic  in  the 
modern  city.  It  is  difficult  for  us  to  relinquish 
a  notion  that  the  world  of  industry  and  com- 
merce is  an  ugly  and  prosaic  one.  Now  we  are 
called  upon  to  see  in  this  same  ugliness  some- 
thing positively  beautiful.  And  we  do  begin  to 
see  it.  We  begin  to  see  that  the  city  reveals 
the  character  of  an  epoch  and  that  the  spirit  of 
our  modernity  is,  at  least,  the  most  appropriate 
thing  for  us  to  express.  Art  is  mere  artifice  un- 
less it  is  the  response  of  a  genuine  impulse,  a 
genuine  need  that  has  compelled  its  creation. 
And  architecture  is  merely  the  name  we  give  to 
the  task  of  planning  how  best  in  the  construction 
of  our  buildings  we  may  make  beauty  serve  utility 
in  accord  with  the  eternal  fitness  of  things.  The 
skyscraper  rose  higher  and  higher  on  our  streets, 
not  aspiring  to  be  beautiful  but  to  be  useful,  to 
solve  the  problem  of  how  to  raise  a  huge  edifice 
on  a  small  plot  of  valuable  land.  This  imperious 
invasion  of  upper  air  for  the  purposes  of  extend- 


I'     < 

I 


98        THE  ENCHANTMENT  OK  ART 
ing  business  seems  to  us  now  from  our  present 
vantage   point   something  titanic   and   typical  of 
our  time.     Yet  from  ten  to  twenty  years  ago  we 
never  looked  at  the  skyscraper  to  admire  it.  nor 
conceived    the    thought    that    under    sun-flushed 
ni'>rning  mist,  or  the  slant  sunset  light,  it  might 
be,  in  a  rare  and  stirring  way,  a  thing  of  beauty 
Now  we  are  all  rerdy  to  stand  sponsor  for  this 
new  American   architecture   which    is   so   sincere 
and  original,  and  we  are  all  willing  to  acknowl- 
edge m  Its  appearance  not  only  something  inher- 
ently  picturesque,  but   unconsciously   symbolical 
And   so,  more   in  America  perhaps  than   in   any 
other  country,  the  townscape  has  become  a  very 
formidable  rival  of  the  landscape  in  painting  and 
in  other  pictorial  arts. 

Now  that  the  city  is  such  a  favorite  subject  for 
representation  in  pictures  it  is  interesting  to  trace 
the  beginning  of  the  painter's  responsiveness  to 
the  esthetic  possibilities  of  streets  and  buildings 
It  space  permitted  we  could  speculate  upon  the 
influence  that  prompted  Ambrogio  Lorenzetti  to 
tresco  an  upper  room  in  the   beautiful  townhall 
of  Siena  with  his  delectable  view  of  a  medieval 
city  prospering  under  good  government.     Giotto 
had  supplied  the  realistic  impetus.     But  here  the 
hfe,  not  of  Christ,  but  of  the  average  man  within 
the  grim  brick  battlements,  was  apprehended  as 
material  for  pictures.     Later  we  could  speak  of 
that  gay  romancer,  Carpaccio.     There  is  a  fas- 
cmation    about    the   pageants   he   portrayed    and 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING   99 

their  setting,  the  shimmering  lagoons,  the  semi- 
Oriental  towers  and  domes.  Something  of  the 
fabulous  glory  of  Venice  in  her  day  of  pomp  and 
power  may  be  imagined.  In  the  later  period  of 
her  diminished  importance  she  retained  her  proud 
beauty,  but  it  is  the  more  subtle  appeal  of  faded 
splendour  that  Canaletto  and  Guardi  immortal- 
ized in  the  eighteenth  century.  Very  exquisitely  did 
they  paint  for  us  the  essential  Venetian  charms; 
delicate  and  yet  sprightly  colours;  stately  water- 
ways traversed  by  ghostly  gondolas;  marble 
bridges  and  stairways;  graceful  balconies  and 
loggias  —  all  beneath  that  faint,  long-lingering 
sunshine  which  in  gracious  melancholy  is  so  like 
our  Venice  that  remains. 

These  two  painters  responded  to  different 
phases  of  Venetian  beauty.  Canale  for  instance 
sought  a  clear  and  golden  light,  the  general  air 
of  radiant  well-being  that  envelopes  such  deep 
architectural  perspectives  as  the  Grand  Canal  curv- 
ing down  to  the  Rialto.  Guardi,  on  the  other 
hand,  loved  the  pearly  and  mist-laden  air  and  was 
sensitive  to  such  passing  impressions  as  impend- 
ing rain,  voyaging  clouds,  shadows  falling  across 
the  house-tops  of  the  Piazza,  little  animated 
figures  catching  the  high-lights  of  the  sun. 
Canale's  style  was  a  lucid  and  substantial  prose, 
Guardi's  a  subtle  and  fragile  poetry.  But  the 
earlier  master,  too,  could  extol  his  city  in  lyric 
fashion.  In  London's  National  Gallery  there  is  a 
superb  example  of  this  impassioned  realism.     The 


n 


\i   I 


■00      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
"cning   shadow,    are   gradually    darkening    .fc, 

-ely  church  „n"t  faTrtlr'arra-lret; 
■mmersed,  only  ,he  soaring  bell-tower  «il  g W 

i?inT'r'  ":  ™''  "'"  ^'^y-  The  for  ground 
I  Ju^.°'  «"'''"  "S'"  "■«  seems  to  pour 
through  the  frame  of  the  picture.  Stone-carvers 
are  finishing  their  wort  in  ,„j  '""c-carvers 

shanrv     n    I  i     *    .  "''  ^'"""^  ^  wooden 

shanty     Doubtless  it  is  the  wife  of  one  of  them 

who  plays  with  her  babies  while  from  an  uppe" 
.he  t'Jremr'h  T'  ^"'  ""•     ^he  houron 

rr,TA~  ""'"•"'   '•y  "■i'^k  Pis-nent  over 

Tr^h  ^  k'?"""'-  ^''«'  '^='»'  'os^'her  with  the 
"ched  balcony,  the  flowers  and  curtains  of  the 
wmdows,  gleam  transfigured  in  the  radiant  light 

about^hetl'  ""T''  '"'"'  "'""  '""«•'  '-  l-ok 
about  them  for  subjects,  and  many  are  the  Dutch 

townscapes.  Pieter  de  Hooghe  with  his  dolrs 
and  wmdows  opemng  on  canals  and  cou  -yaMs 
the  sunhght  streaming  in,  creates  just  the  genia  ' 
shut-m  sentiment  of  city  life.  His  homesTre 
dehghtful  but  the  mind  only  needs  his  suggestion 
of  br.ck  walls  and  ampler  air  outside  to  go 
a-wandermg  ,„to  the  winding  ways  of  seventeenth- 
century  Amsterdam.  Vermeer  painted  two  c  ty 
p.ctures  and  they  are  visions  of  entrancing  love^ 
mess.  In  h,s  celebrated  "View  of  Delft,"  the  veAr 
tenures  of  roofs  and  walls  and  steeples  are  S 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING     loi 
tated   with  grainy  pigment,   and   the  illusion  of 
mellow    evening    sunshine    is    truly    miraculous. 
But  in   all  this   triumphant   naturalism   there  is 
nothing  literal.     As  also  in  the  little  street  scene 
of  the  Six  Collection  the  foliage  of  the  trees  is  of  a 
most  delicious  blue.    And  through  all  the  singing 
colour  harmony  there  is  a  pervading  sentiment  of 
dreamful  quiet  resting  upon  the  little  town  and 
its  pale  canal;  the  peace  and  joy  of  all  the  golden 
evenings  that  ever  were.     Never  since  Vermeer 
painted  this  enchanting  canvas  has  the  evanescent 
effect  of  glowing  sunlight  and  lengthening  shadows 
over  walls  of  solid  masonry  produced  a  result  so 
lyrical.     Van  der  Hcyden  was  a  more  literal  soul. 
His  many  admirable  views  of  Dutch  towns  are 
full   of  interest   but   devoid   of  charm,   and   are 
painted    with    the    detailed    laboriousness    of    a 
Gerard  Dou.     However  for  devoting  his  life  and 
art  to  the  depiction  of  the  city  —  the  first  painter 
to  really  appreciate  the  possibilities  of  the  genre, 
he  deserves  great  credit. 

From  the  Dutch  streets  and  canals  of  Van  der 
Heyden  to  similar  subjects  in  a  radically  different 
style  by  G.  H.  Breitner  is  a  long  leap,  but  in  the 
intermediate  two  hundred  years  there  are  no 
noteworthy  examples  of  successful  townscape 
painting.  Breitner  is  one  of  the  stenographic 
impressionists  bent  on  rapidly  recording  instan- 
taneous effects.  He  either  paints  scenes  of  violent 
activity  on  the  Rotterdam  and  Amsterdam  docks, 
or  the  brown-and-white,  peak-gabled  houses  bor- 


I02       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


i' 


dering   the   quiet   canals  of  residential   districts. 
His  brushwork  is  extremely  vigorous  and  he  has 
a  realist's  sure  instinct  for  strength  of  colour  and 
of  atmospheric  illusion.     I  remember  one  particu- 
larly incisive  transcript  of  a  winter  evening  in  a 
Dutch  town.     The  foreground  is  a  snow-covered 
bridge  in  the  all  but  complete  darkness  of  early 
nightfall.     One    may    dimly    distinguish    a    few 
belated    pedestrians   hurrying    through    the   chill 
gloom.    The   observer   is   at   once   inside  of  the 
picture,  seeking  the  lighted  shop  windows  of  the 
middle  distance.     But  his  attention  is  diverted  by 
the   incident   of  a   sullen   glow  of  reddish   light 
persisting    in    the   western    sky.     Such   work    as 
this   is    a    digression    from    the    Dutch    pictorial 
tradition  which  has  always  laid  more  emphasis  on 
surface  beauty  than  strength  and  which  has,  in 
the  nineteenth-century  revival,  tempered  truth  with 
sentiment.     It  is  from   Paris  that   Breitner's  in- 
spiration   comes.    There   a    school   of   specialists 
arose  about   i860  —  specialists  in  light   and  air, 
transient  effects  guaranteed,  prosaic  subjects  se- 
lected by  preference.     The  Paris  of  the  theatres, 
the  boulevard  cafes,  the  public  parks  and  bridges, 
offered   them  abundant  opportunity  for  exciting 
experiments   with    conflicts    and    complexities    of 
light.     Manet,    the    chef    d'ecole,    depicted    the 
bar  at  the  FoHes  Bergeres  and  an  open-air  con- 
cert in  the  Tuilleries  Gardens,  both  daring  studies 
of  the  animation  of  crowds  and  of  the  reflections 
and   refractions  of    colour.     Monet   painted    the 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING     103 
Garc  Saint-Lazare  just  at   the  moment  when  a 
locomotive  has  rushed   under  the  giazed   dome. 
The   smoke   from   the   engine   rises   blue   in    the 
enclosed  foreground  and  drifts  away  pink  in  the 
open    sunlight    beyond.     Many    years    later    in 
London  this  great  painter  did  the  best  work  of 
his  career  with  such  scenes  as  Waterloo  Bridge  in 
the  blue  of  morning  fog.    The  struggling  sunlight 
tints  with  purest  violet  the  murky  sky  and  the 
ascending  columns  of  smoke  from  factory  chim- 
neys, and  violet   reflections  shimmer  across  the 
waters  of  the  Thames.     Pissarro,  also,  has  painted 
London,  although  he  is  ber  known  for  his  Pari- 
sian avenues  with  swarmin/   crowds  viewed  from 
upper  windows  in  various  conditions  of  atmos- 
phere such  as  wind   and   rain.     To-day  Paris  is 
best  portrayed  by  Raflfaelli  in  paintings,  etchings 
and   lithographs.     He   emphasizes   the   vivacious 
pallor  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  his  sunshine  there 
seeming  ever  faint  and  weary.     He  points  with 
pride  to  the  majesty  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
and  comments  on  the  contrast  of  faces  to  be  seen 
any  summer's  day  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 
Each  picture  is  a  moment  fraught  with  signifi- 
cance   and    eloquent   with    unspoken    suggestion. 
Raffaelli  knows  his  Paris. 

It  is  the  perennial  answer  of  the  artist  when  a 
critic  complains  that  a  picture  is  not  thus  and 
so  — "I  paint  what  I  see."  Exactly.  But  what 
an  amazing  variety  there  is  to  our  human  vision. 
For  us  who  walk  and  drive  about  a  city,  catching 


104       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

enjoyable  impressions  that  at  the  time  are  almost 
entirely  optical  and  untroubled  by  any  precon- 
ceptions of  our  own,  the  city  means  a  series  of 
more  or  less   vivid  sensations,  of  colour,  atmos- 
phere, architecture,  and  abundant  light  and  life, 
all  blurred  by  the  incessant  movement  and  the 
constantly  altered  perspective.     It  was  thus,  rep- 
resenting the  average  man  on  the  average  street, 
that  Manet,  Monet,  Degas  and  Renoir  purposed 
to  paint  their  Paris.     But  while  this  coterie  of 
clever    naturalists    were    rapidly    recording    the 
kaleidoscopic    city    scene    with    purely    objective 
absorption   [in    facts,    a  half-starved,    half-crazed 
genius  was  etching  all  the  terror  and  the  torment 
of  his  soul  in  once  seen,  never  to  be  forgotten 
visions  of  old  Paris;    visions  that  affect  the  ob- 
server with  a  sense  of  something  abnormal  and 
yet  familiar,  sinister  and  yet  bewilderingly  beauti- 
ful.    In  one  of  Meryon's  famous  plates  the  sun 
beats  with  pitiless  glare   upon   the  old   Morgue 
a!,d    a    haggard    row    of   tall,    white    tenements 
huddled  back  of  it.     In  the  foreground  a  corpse 
is  being  carried   up  from  the  river  —  the  scene 
sharply  silhouetted  against  the  white  light  on  the 
gleaming   stone    parapet.     But   we   do  not   need 
this  touch  of  melodrama  to  accentuate  the  ma- 
cabre impression.     The  old  buildings  of  the  back- 
ground,   drawn    with   the    consummate   art   that 
conceals  its  wizardry,  oppress  the  eye  and   the 
mind  with  mysterious  glamour.     Thus  might  we 
behold   beauty  in  a  feverish  dream  or  in  some 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING     105 

hour  of  intolerable  depression.    Marvellous,  too,  is 
Meryon's  vision  of  "Le  Stryge,"  the  horned  and 
winged  Demon  that  with  tongue  outthrust,  from 
the  northwest  tower  of  Notre  Dame,  broods  in 
lascivious  thought  and  luxurious  satisfaction  over 
Paris.     To  the  depiction  of  this  monster  of  medi- 
aeval fantasy,  Meryon   brought  his  own  haunted 
imagination.     Birds    of    prey    swoop    under    the 
towers,  and  in  the  black  shadows  of  the  streets 
below  evil  secrets  are  in  the  air,  crime  might  well 
be  lurking   around   any  corner.    Joseph   Pennell 
relates    that    once    when    he    was    sketching    up 
among  these  eerie  gargoyles  he  was  surprised  by 
the  arrival  of  Whistler.     The  great  painter  had 
not,    however,    toiled    up    the    painful    stairway 
merely  to  enjoy  the  view.     In  fact  he  soon  be- 
came   nervous   and    restless   among   the    strange 
demons,  and  was  obviously  unhappy  until  they 
were  completely  out  of  his  sight  and  mind.     This 
incident  throws  an  important  light  on  Whistler's 
real    taste     and    temperament.     He    hated    the 
grotesque  and  acutely  resented  the  abnormal  and 
the  sensational.     The  city  was  to  him  a  perpetual 
inspiration  and  the  poetry  of  Nature  which  most 
painters  go  seeking  in  woods  and  fields,  he  could 
find  in   London.     But  only  when  it  is  dusk  or 
night,  when  there  is  a  flush  in  the  gloaming  or 
when    the    lamps    are    lit    across    the    river    and 
the  blue,  mysterious  world  glimmers  far  and  near 
with    sparks    of  gold.     That    he    preferred  the 
gentle    illusions    of    an    enchanted    darkness    to 


[-■i^ 


io6       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
the  staring  obviousness  of  the  day  is  not  sur- 
prising, but  what  may  be  at  first  disconcerting  is 
that  he  carried  this  preference  for  intangible  and 
inexplicable   quahties   to   his  choice   of  subjects. 
Although   his   dreams  were   expressed    in   simple 
terms  of  unmistakable  reality  —  the  atmosphere 
of    his    Nocturnes    being    truth    itself  — yet    he 
never  emphasized  his  observation.    Just  to  show 
that  the  less  there  is  to  see,  the  more  there  is 
to   feel,  his   carefully  coloured  wood   panels   and 
absorbent  canvases  were  often  undisturbed  by  any 
but  the  most  tentative  suggestions  of  form.     And 
he    invariably    selected    for    depiction,    both    in 
painting  and  etching,  not  the  far-famed  sights  of 
cities,  but  curiously  casual  bits  that  revealed  his 
own     discrimination;     Venetian     doorways     and 
London   fruit-stalls  and   suburban  warehouses  — 
remarkably   unremarkable   subjects   about  which 
he  alone  could  say  bea-itiful  things  and  by  the 
delicacy  of  his  sight  and  touch   -onvert  the  sub- 
stance of  prose  into  the  essence  of  poetry.     Of 
living  artists,  Frank  Brangwyn  perhaps  hai   felt 
the    poetry   of  cities   most   intensely.     His   is   a 
powerful  personality  for  whom  the  visible  world 
is  fraught  with  rich  romance  that  is  largely  of  his 
own   making  — a   romance  that  he  finds  in   the 
bridges  and  markets  and  wharves  of  London  no 
less  than  in  the  mediaeval  guild-houses  of  Ghent 
and   the  domed  mosques   of  the  Orient.     True 
individualists  then  can  easily  make  their  town- 
scapes  expressive  of   themselves  —  of  the  shape 


V 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING     107 

and  colour  of  their  own  minds,  the  key  and  tone 
of  their  own  moods. 

Before  etchings  of  cities  by  M:ryon,  Whistler 
and    Brangwyn   we   do   not   think   of  the   cities 
depicted  but  of  the  artists  themselves,  the  appeal 
of  their   individual   style   and   of  their   original 
personalities.     Before  etchings  of  cities  by  Joseph 
Pennell,  however,  we  instinctively  exclaim  as  we 
glance  hurriedly  through  a  portfolio  or  around  the 
walls  of  an  exhibition  —  that  is  Paris,  Chartres, 
Canterbur  ,    London,    New    York,     Pittsburgh! 
Each  priii.  is  a  portrait  of  the  place  it  represents 
and  a  portrait  full  of  the  racial  and  the  national 
as   well   as   the   local   character  of  the   subject. 
Pennell's    Spanish    cities    are    as    unmistakably 
Spanish  as  his  American  cities  are  American.    It 
is  as  easy  for  him  to  render  the  essential  Castilian 
quality  of  Toledo  on  the  Tagus  as  it  would  be  for 
him  to  state  all  that  is  true  of  Ohio  and  at  the 
same  time  picturesque  in  Toledo,  the  American 
town.    He    has    sketched    and    etched    in    many 
lands  and  in  each  place,  whether  city  or  village, 
he  has  said  just  the  right  thing  — no  more,  no 
less.     Provided  a  place  has  a  character  of  its  own 
he  will  seize  upon  it  and  do  it  justice.     If  there  is 
a  possibility  of  poetic  suggestion  he  will  make  the 
most  of  it.     If  it  is  merely  a  matter  of  fact  he  will 
resort  to  no  mock  heroics  but  will  state  the  case 
with  the  learned  strokes  of  a  pencil  or  an  etching 
needle,  never  at  a  loss  to  execute  his  intention  — 
to  reproduce  exactly  what  his  responsive  mind 


/ 


n 


108      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

and  eye  have  selected  as  artistic  and  significant. 
His  pictures  of  New  York  skyscrapers  are  perhaps 
the    summit    of    his    achievement.     They    have 
genuinely   thrilled   him,   these  Towers  of  Babel, 
these  incredible  dream  castles  that  are  as  real  as 
their  steel  and   stone  construction   and  as  sym- 
bolical of  our  national  character  as  anything  that 
a    poet's    imagination    could    have    devised.     In 
some  of  Pennell's  views  of  the  sky-line  from  the 
river   the   tall    buildings   stand    all    spectral    and 
fantastic  in  the  misty  morning  light.     In  others, 
we  feel  the  height  and  bulk  and  clamour  of  the 
business  districts  during  rush  hours  with  a  sense 
of  overwhelming   actualities.     Childe    Hassam   is 
another  artist  of  objective  vision  who  can  record 
with  exceptional  skill  the  pictorial  inspiration  of 
our  mighty  cities.     He  has    painted   down-town 
New    York    with    a    virile    and    a    facile    brush, 
painted  the  spire  of  Old  Trinity  dwarfed  by  the 
encircling    hosts   of   steel-ribbed    giants,   painted 
Wall  Street,  seen  from  above,  in  whose  bottom- 
most depths  we  note  the  frenzied  ground  whirl 
of    humanity.      Likewise    the    jagged    silhouette 
of   gaunt     buildings    on    the    waterfront   he   has 
portrayed    under    many    conditions    of    atmos- 
phere, and  alike  in  the  crystalline  trancparency 
of  an    autumn  morning  and    the  golden  haze  of 
a    summer  evening  —  the    charm    is    irresistible. 
Then,  too,  he  has  rendered  v/ith  Monet's  spots 
and  splashes  the  momentary  impiessions  of  rainy 
nights  in  the  theatre  district.     The  blurred  lights. 


CITY  IN  PAINTING  AND  ETCHING     109 
the  hurrying  crowds  under  wet   umbrellas,   the 
glistening   pavements,   we   see   them   all,   not   in 
detail  but  in  that  swift,  all  pervasive  sense  when 
the  hurried  glance  rests  upon  nothing  in  particular 
but  takes  in  everything  in  general.     In  others  of 
his  city  scenes  he  will  present  the  proud  pageant 
of  Fifth  Avenue  on  Sunday  mornings  or  perhaps 
some   side   street   in   the   grip   of  a   midwinter's 
evening.     The  snow  lies  deep  and  soggy  in  drifts 
and  furrows,  reflecting  on  the  pavements  the  dim 
illumination  from  the  lamp-posts,  while  the  more 
genial  light   from  within   the  houses  only  accen- 
tuates   the    outer  chill    and    gloom.     Cornoyer's 
realism  is  more  subjective  than  Hassam's.    There 
IS  a  tang  of  melancholy  about  it.     Or  is  it  ennui? 
He  expresses  by  preference  the  quiet  mood  that 
may  be  fostered  even  amid  the  unrest  and  the 
uproar  by  such  a  sight  as  Madison  Square  on  a 
damp,  dark  afternoon,  trees  and  streets  slick  with 
soft  moisture,  and  the  outlines  of  tall  buildings  in 
the  distance  lost  in  the  gloom  of  low  lying  clouds. 
Then  there  is  the  mood  of  excitement  so  true  to 
the  dweller  in  cities.     Bellows,  Luks,  Myers,  Shinn, 
Hoffbauer  and  many  others  have  essayed   it — 
the  excitement  of  little  children  of  the  East  Side 
tenements  dancing  around  a  grind-organ,  or  the 
excitement    of    fire-engines    in    the    dark,    or   of 
cigarettes    after    dinner    on    a    down-town    roof 
garden  in  the  summer  starlight,  with  searchlights 
playing  .rom   the  harbour,  and   deep  below  the 
twmkling  illumination  of  the  streets.    Such  scenes 


i! 


no      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
are  as  yet  too  real  to  yield  us  illusions.     But  the 
sense   of   their   romance    will   grow.     And    what 
seems  fascinating  to  us  even   now   in   views  of 
skyscrapers  and  steel  mills  and  harbour  commerce 
and  street  traffic  -  with  what  new  glamour  shall 
they  be  invested  when  the  eyes  of  future  ages 
behold  in  them  the  true  likeness  of  great  Ameri- 
can cities  in  the  glorious  days  of  the  Republic 
And  not  merely  the  show  and  the  substance  of 
them  shall  be  known  but  also  their  significance. 
And   the  measure  of  historical   importance   that 
shall    dignify    those    pictorial    representations    of 
cities    shall    in    the    end    be    identical    with    the 
measure  of  their  importance  as  art.     For  only  in 
so  far  as  they  can  convey  to  the  beholder  the 
sense  of  visual  impressions,  not  merely  seen  but 
felt,  of  moments  vividly  experienced,  and  then, 
by  the  ordered  magic  of  mind  and  hand,  trans- 
ferred   to   canvas    and    paper  —  can    they   make 
what  are  but  realistic  observations  for  us,  roman- 
tic visions  for  our  children's  children. 


VII 

ART  FOR  THE   SAKE  OF  TRUTH 

BEAUTY 


—  AND 


WE   cannot   properly  appreciate  that 
impressionism  which  is  the  impulse 
of  all   true  pictorial    art    until  we 
have  brought  an  open  mind  to  the 
consideration  of  the  familiar  dogma  of  the  modern 
studio  —  "art  for  art's  sake."     Windy  wars  have 
been  waged   because  of  it.     How  it  wearies  the 
mind    to   think   of   all    the    cross    purposes   and 
jarnng  contentions!    Art  is  certainly  the  richer 
for    Whistler    and    his    influence,    but    it    is   not 
because  he  wrangled   and  carefully  recorded  his 
quarrels  with  his  critics,  but  because  he  painted 
pictures  greater  than  his  theories.     That  the  seed 
of  his  aesthetic  doctrines  should  have  fallen  upon 
inhospitable  soil  in  Victorian  England  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at.     Ruskin  had  taught  his  country 
either  to  copy  Nature  with  painstaking  fidelity  or 
to    embody   exalted    stories    and    sentiments   for 
useful  ends.     Then  along  came  Jimmy  Whistler 
—  asserting  — (i)  That  the  artist  must  pick  and 
choose  his  notes  from  the  world's  keyboard  —  that 
"to  paint  Nature  as  she  is,  is  to  sit  on  the  piano;" 
(2)  That  subjects  are  of  extremely  secondary  im- 
portance—that  a   mountain    is   not   necessarily 


112  THE  ENCHAISTTMENT  OF  ART 
sublime  if  it  is  badly  painted  and  that  a  suburban 
factory  chimney  in  the  evening  gloom  is  not 
necessarily  prosaic  if  properly  seen  and  rendered. 
In  short  he  insisted  that  a  picture  must  exist  for 
its  own  sake  —  that 

If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

To  us  this  does  not  seem  to  be  a  very  radical  or 
unreasonable  doctrine.     Yet  the  Victorian  critics 
blinked    and    sneered   and    the   Victorian    public 
stared    and   giggled.     In    his   fight   for   painters' 
principles    Whistler   was    practically    unaided    in 
England.     In    France,    however,    the   battle   had 
been    waged    and    won.    The    stilted    academic 
standards  had  been  assailed  and  shaken  by  the 
concerted    action    of   artists    from    Delacroix    to 
Monet.     With    increasing    strength    their    spirits 
rose  and  in  angry  defiance  of  continued  clamour 
for  subject  pictures  many  men  went  to  sensational 
extremes.     Art  for  art's  sake  was  then  popularly 
and  quite  justly  interpreted  to  mean  not  art  for 
truth's  or  beauty's  sake,  but  art  for  the  sake  of 
technique,   art   for   the   sake   of  canvas   covered 
thus  and  thus,  for  the  sake  of  pigments  so  applied 
from  the  tubes,  and  brushes  so  manipulated,  art 
for  the  sake  of  absolute  values,  and  refraction, 
and  vibration,  and  broken  tones,  and  a  hundred' 
other  technical  terms  that  are  secrets  of  the  few, 
obscure  and  unhallowed  mysteries  to  the  many! 
As  notorious  as  the  crimes  that  have  been  com- 
mitted through  the  ages  in  the  name  of  Liberty 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    113 

are  the  crimes  perpetrated  within  recent  years  in 
the  name  of  Art.     For  artists  have   been  fairly 
rioting    in    revolution    and    proclaiming    a    new 
dogma  of  their  own  in  place  of  the  discredited 
ones  of  the  ancien  regime.     It  is  no  longer  art 
for  the  sake  of  the  Church,  for  the  sake  of  the 
Court,  for  the  sake  of  Greek  marbles,  for  the  sake 
of  the  school  or  fireside  interest  in  literature  and 
history,  but  art  for  the  sake  of  the  artist,  art  for 
its  own   sweet   sake.     In   effect  the   painter  has 
been  saying  to  the  public  — "You  have  made  us 
tell  stories,  now  you  can  watch  us  dabble  in  raw 
materials    and    experiment    with    light    and    air. 
Our  experiments  will   be  helpful  to  us  and   be- 
wildering  to  you.     We   have   long   realized   that 
painting  was  falling  behind   the  times,   that  we 
were  not  reflecting  the  life  around   us,  that  the 
scienific   enlightenment   of  our   age   had    passed 
us  b>,  as  if  we  were  not  concerned  with  truth  and 
the   v/hole   truth.     Now  we   shall   make   up   for 
lost  time.     As  for  you  —  it  will  do  you  no  harm 
to  regard  art  in  a  new  light,  as  no  longer  a  sub- 
servient thing,  but  independent  of  you  and  your 
ideas,  with  a  point  of  view  and  a  dogma  of  its 
own.     For  centuries  you  have  made  us  come  to 
you  to  serve  you.     Now  we  shall  see  and  p-mt 
what  we  choose   and   as  we   choose.     You   may 
take  us  or  leave  us." 

So   rang   the   challenge   and   strange   was   the 
result  of  it.     For  a  while  people  laughed  at  the 


h 


114       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

French  innovators,  labelling  them  fantastics  and 
barbarians,  and  all  his  life  Whistler  had  a  lively 
time  of  it  with  critics  and  a  public  who  believed 
that  his  art  like  his  outer  life  was  a  studied  pose 
and  an  ill-natured  joke.     But  what  obscurity  had 
never  done  for  their  more  conservative  predeces- 
sors   in    artistic    progress,    notoriety   secured    for 
these  radicals  and  their  teeming  progeny.     With 
that    ever-familiar,    ever-curious    irony    of   Fate, 
the  pendulum  of  public  opinion  swung  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  and  painters  awoke  to  find 
the  crowd  they  had  affected  to  despise,  swarming 
to  their  exhibitions  and  teasing  them  like  amuse- 
ment-seeking  boys,   to  be   as   unconventional   as 
they   dared.     Soon   the   house   of  art   became   a 
vaudeville,  a  workshop,  a  lecture  room,  a  labora- 
tory, all  too  seldom  a  temple  for  the  soul.     There 
have  been  instances  of  paintings  more  scientific, 
certainly  less  synthetic  than  science.     As  for  the 
notorious    performers    known    as    Post    Impres- 
sionists    and     Cubists    their    grotesque     carica- 
tures   are    evidently    based    upon    the    impudent 
assumption  that   people  now-a-days  will   tolerate 
anything  provided  its  novelty  is  proclaimed  loud 
enough.     The  truth   is  that  whereas  a  hundred 
years  ago  painters  were  tinting  Greek  and  Roman 
statues,  because  they  feared  to  take  any  liberties 
with  the  banal,  timorous  public  taste  that  frowned 
on   innovation,  to-day  we  are  suffering  from  an 
excess  of  public  tolerance   in  regard   to  art,   an 
actual    encouragement    of   any    hitherto    untried 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    115 
experiment  in  the  making  of  pictures.    One  truth 
has  been   conclusively  proved.     The  cavalier  dec- 
laration that  art  could  do  without  the  public  was 
either  a  blunder  or  a  bluff.    Art  exists  for  and 
by  the  consent  of  the  public.    Almost  from  the 
beginning   painters   have   protested    against    the 
prevailing    popular    misconception    of   what    art 
ought  to  be.    Of  course  there  was  a  time  when 
pamting  was  but  a  step  removed  from  penance 
and  from  prayer.    At  work  in  mystic  consecration 
upon  his  wooden  saints  and  madonnas,  the  friar 
in  his  cell  was   blessedly   insensible  to  the  im- 
pieties   of    beauty.     Browning's    Pictor    Ignotus 
thrilled  to  know  that  on  his  frescoes  there  was  no 
suggestion   of  grace   and   charm,   no   figment   of 
truth  to  life  nor  resemblance  to  that  outer  world 
whose   vanities   he   had    renounced   forever.     He 
rejoiced  that  although  he  might  have  won  favour 
and  fortune  out  in  the  shrill  sunshine,  his  painted 
confession  of  faith  would  moulder  and  fade  away 
on  chill  monastic  walls.     But  all  this  was  before 
the  spirit  of  art  was  born.     Soon  enough  a  strange 
joy  came  to  the  friar  at  his  work.     Voices  and 
scents  were  borne  to  him  on  the  restless  winds 
seeming  to  call  him  to  that  outer  world.     Brown- 
ing pictured  him  in  this  mood,  his  Lippo  Lippi 
hungry  for  life  and  love.     We  may  see  how  this 
human  passion  passed  into  his  altar-paintings  in 
protest.     The  devotional  piety  of  the  Flemish  and 
Italian  Primitives  was  in  many  cases  genuine  and 
charming.     But  even  in  such  a  devout  spirit  as 


1 


ii6      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Memlinc,  what  I  prize  most  is  the  lively  enamelled 
colour   and   the    little    blue-and-brown    peeps   of 
tapestry    landscape    that    the    painter    shily    in- 
troduced as  background  to   indulge  himself  in  a 
dash  of  self-expression.     Giorgione  was  the   first 
to    completely    break    away    from    ecclesiastical 
domination,  and  it  was  he  who  originated  genre 
and    the    idyllic    sentiment    for    pure    landscape. 
But  few  were  the  men  who  dared   to  do  more 
than  protest  against  the  prevailing  fashions,   as 
Watteau  with  his  air  of  inscrutable  melancholy 
protested    against    the    frivolity    which    he    was 
forced  to  paint  for  a  frivolous  age.     The  really 
great  artists  who  declared  war  against  the  teach- 
ing of  the  schools  and  the  taste  of  the  buyers, 
were  all  but  submerged  in  consequence.     Witness 
the  poverty  of  Rembrandt  and  of  Millet.     But 
to-day  extremists  reap  the  benefit  of  their  epoch- 
making  courage,  and  now  that  eccentricity  is  at 
a  premium  where  in  their  day  formula  was  law, 
the  wildest  ventures  are  more  profitable  than  was 
their   noble    moderation.     Of   course    the    public 
does  not  change  from  age  to  age  as  much  as  these 
changes  in  artistic  fashion  would  seem  to  indicate. 
The   trouble   is   that   there   has   always   existed, 
through   all   the   changes   of  thought   and   taste, 
throughout    periods    of    slavery,    prosperity    and 
obscurity  for  the  artist,  the  same  total  ignorance 
of  the  conditions  that  govern  and  limit  pictorial 
expression.     Art  cannot  exist  without  some  ap- 
preciative understanding.     If  left  to  himself,  the 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH     117 
painter  got,  to  one  extreme,  the  public  ,0  the 

^IZVi'""  '"  ""  ""f"''""  Mr.  Whistler 
then  to  the  contrary -I  hold  that  the  critic  of 
ar  who  can  appreciate  both  points  of  view  and 
act  as  med.ator  between  them  performs  an  in- 

"  «*«.'•»  am«  IS  fair  to  the  world  and  that  the 
world  IS  fair  to  the  artist. 

But  before  either  of  these  desirable  results  can 
be  secured   the   artist  and   the   world   must   be 

of  artistic  eipression,  their  individual  capacities 
and  limitations.  They  must  know  that  paint  ^g 
cannot  tell  a  story,  that  it  can  only  repress 
a  moment's  situation.  They  must  know  ?hat  i 
may  deal  with  thought  or  emotion,  but  only  in-si 
far  as  these  things  may  be  comprehended  in  the 
colour  and  form  through  the  direct  agency  o"  the 
umnstructed  and  unaided  sense  of  sigh,     Ir  S^r 

Joh„Mniais'picture"TheHug„e„ot.-?to:iou 
sentiment  is  at  leas,  legitimate.     From  such  a 
fond  embrace  we  could  not  possibly  fail  to  receive 

scarf,  indicating  to  those  who  happen  ,0  have 
read  about  the  subject  that  the  girl'hasTied  an 
emblem  around  her  lover's  arm  in^rder  ,0  hieW 
h  m  from  massacre,  ,hat  scarf  could  only  be  „- 

ZiilT'  '""«-"'«-  P-P°«.  which  n 

«me  which         ""'•     "  ^'"'"  ^'"«  "•'  *«h«ic 
sense  which  is  not  concerned  with  historical  data 


ii8       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


-i 


and  the  mind  which  happens  to  be  ignorant  of  or 
inattentive  to  its  historical  significance.  The 
defenders  of  the  story-telling  picture  make  much 
of  the  fact  that  Rembrandt  depicted  incidents 
from  the  Bible.  But  can  they  point  to  a  single 
canvas  in  which  documentary  evidence  of  a 
scriptural  or  archjeological  character  has  dis- 
tracted the  eye  from  the  essential  unity  of 
afrthetic  and  emotional  impression  ?  At  the  Hague 
Gallery  David  plays  his  harp  before  Saul.  Although 
jve  may  not  hear  the  music,  our  sight  compre- 
hends at  a  glance  the  effect  which  the  harpist  is 
producing  upon  the  mind  of  the  king.  Mean- 
while our  eyes  are  feasting  upon  the  dazzling 
iridescence  of  Saul's  turban,  its  mingled  tones  of 
copper  and  bronze,  scarlet  and  green  and  gold. 
And  as  we  gaze  a  spell  of  sensuous  witchery  stirs 
us,  like  the  spell  of  some  soul-disturbing  rhapsody 
of  sound.  As  in  all  great  subjective  paintings  the 
title  has  been  only  a  pretext.  We  have  beheld 
the  glamour  and  shared  the  passion  of  one  of 
Rembrandt's  passing  moods.  Then  again  con- 
sider the  little  "Supper  at  Emmaus"  in  the  Louvre. 
The  face  of  Christ  oppresses  us  with  a  sense  of 
sharp,  familiar  suffering  and  at  the  same  time 
uplifts  our  hearts  to  a  vision  of  Divine  inspiration 
and  spiritual  perfection.  We  do  not  need  to  note 
the  awe  and  worship  of  the  disciples  at  this 
sudden  revelation  of  their  dead  and  risen  Master 
for  do  we  not  share  their  emotion,  are  we  not 
also   in   the   radiant   presence  of  that   incarnate 


SUPPER  AT  EMM.EUS 
By  Rftnbrandt 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH     119 
goodness   that   lifts   the   burdens   of  the   world? 
This   is   not   merely   Chr.st   as   He   appeared   at 
Emmaus,  this  is  the  Saviour  as  the  afflicted  and 
inspired  Rembrandt  conceived  Him  for  his  own 
consolation,    and    as   we    in    our   sorrows   would 
think  of  Him  to  the  end  of  time.    This  is  not  a 
story  nor  yet  an  incident  from  a  story.     It  is  a 
vision  and  a  strong,  sweet  thought.     How  won- 
derful it   is  that  simple  technical  skill  achieved 
this   miracle   of  spiritual   expression.     The   tech- 
nique is  invisible  in  the  subject  and  the  subject 
one  with  the  sentiment.     Such  is  pictorial  art  at 
its  highest  and  best. 

To  the  familiar  dogma  of  our  present  epoch 
that  the  worth  of  a  painting  can  only  be  esti- 
mated by  its  technical  merits,  regardless  of  sub- 
ject matter,  Rembrandt's  "Supper  at  Emmaus"  is 
sufficient  refutation.     It  is  almost  without  colour 
and  without  distinction  of  design  and  it  reveals 
absolutely  no  technical  feature  which  would  give 
it  any  great  eclat,  not  even  this  painter's  usual 
dramatization  of  light.     Its  supreme  mastery  is 
evidenced  rather  in  the  amazing  inspiration  that 
brushed  in  that  incomparable  face.     It  may  be 
said  that  the  picture  is  gr?at  because  of  the  art 
that  produced  it,  but  how  much  less  great  that 
art  would  have  been  if  the  painter  had  not  been 
inspired  by  a  great   subject.     Unquestionably  a 
copper    sttw-pan   by   Chardin,   true   to   life   yet 
transfigured  by  his  charm  of  touch,  is  a  nobler 


I20      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

work  of  art  than  a  head  of  Christ  crowned  with 
thorns  in  the  cheap  and  perfumed  style  of  Guido 
Reni.     On    the    other    hand    the    unpretentious 
observations  of  copper   stew-pans  do  not   make 
for  the  very  greatest  art.    The  humility  of  such 
conceptions  is  in  striking  contrast  to  the  philoso- 
phy of  art  as  practiced  and  preached  by  the  great 
stern  symbolist  J.  F.  Watts.     By  means  of  pic- 
torial symbols,  he  sought  to  embody  the  eternal 
verities    and    mysteries    of    life    and    death,    to 
reduce  Creation  to  its  primordial  elements  and  to 
teach  and  preach  the  brave  old  moralities  with 
that  unselfconscious  seriousness  so  characteristic 
of  the  Victorian  epoch.     Watts  was  born  in  the 
belief  that  art  should  be  brought  to  the  service  of 
life,  that  art  for  art's  sake  is  no  better  than  ritual 
for    ritual's    sake.     "The    idea    of   following    art 
through  everything  for  itself  alone,"  writes  Gilbert 
Chesterton  in  his  brilliant  book  on  Watts,  "through 
extravagance,  cruelty  and  morbidity,  is  exactly  as 
superstitious  as  the  idea  of  following  theology  for 
itself  alone  through  extravagance,  cruelty  and  mor- 
bidity.    The  young  critics  of  the  aesthetic  school 
with  their  nuances  and  technical  mysteries  would 
doubtless  be  surprised  to  learn  that  as  a  class 
they  resemble  ecstatic  nuns,  but  their  principle  is 
in  reality  the  same."     Watts  was  one  of  those 
universalists  who  thought  that  just  as  the  ecstatic 
isolation  of  the  religious  sense  had  done  incalcula- 
ble harm  to  religion,  so  the  ecstatic  isolation  of 
the  aesthetic  sense  would  do  incalculable  harm  to 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    121 

art.  It  was  his  firm  intention  therefore  to 
present  great  natural  truths  and  great  moral 
ideas  and  it  so  chanced  that  to  express  these 
things  he  selected  for  his  medium  a  pictorial 
symbolism  of  colour  and  form.  So  perfectly  did 
his  symbols  illuminate  and  exalt  his  noble  but 
unoriginal  ideas  that  they  served  his  purpose  in 
putting  new  vitality  into  venerable  thoughts. 
His  educational  purpose  was  accomplished  through 
the  happy  accident  of  a  profoundly  original  pic- 
torial genius.  There  was  a  sublime  unity  to  his 
conceptions,  a  unity  into  which  vague,  allegorical 
or  topical  allusions  seldom  intruded,  a  unity  so 
clear  that  the  world  of  abstract  thought  seemed 
to  spring  unlaboured  into  shape  and  colour 
beneath  his  brush.  Pictures  have  no  business 
dealing  with  symbols  unless  they  can  present 
them  without  the  slightest  infraction  of  the  laws 
of  pictorial  unity.  Furthermore,  they  must  im- 
prove upon  language  as  a  means  of  conveying 
thought,  else  they  are  worse  than  useless.  In 
some  of  Watts'  pictures  the  colours  are  harsh 
and  in  others  the  meaning  seems  imprisoned  rather 
than  liberated  by  the  design.  As  a  rule,  however, 
he  was  splendidly  successful,  notably  in  his 
deeply  symbolical  portraits  of  men  and  in  such 
immortal  creations  as  the  picture  entitled 
"Hope."  On  the  orb  of  the  globe  in  the  blue  of 
our  cosmic  twilight  sits  the  stricken  form  of  a 
young  girl  blindfolded.  Yes,  this  is  Hope.  For, 
see,  the  bowed  and  suffering  figure  clasps  in  her 


122       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

arms  a  broken  harp;  one  string  alone  remains 
taut,  but  this  she  twangs  resolutely,  pressing  it 
closer  and  ever  closer  to  her  ear  to  catch  its 
lingering  sweet  vibrations.  The  simple  design, 
the  even  simpler  colour  scheme,  convey  the  mean- 
ing directly  to  our  sense  of  sight.  Now  what  is 
the  best  that  literature  can  do  with  this  subject, 
expressed,  as  a  symbol  should  be,  without  elabora- 
tion? I  suppose  it  is  the  old  hackneyed  quota- 
tion "Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast." 
Watts'  picture  is  decidedly  preferable.  How 
beneficently  then  an  unsuspected  power  within  an 
artist  supplements  and  ennobles  his  limited  in- 
tentions! Whistler  proposed  no  more  for  himself 
than  a  decorative  unity  of  lines,  an  atmospheric 
valuation  of  tones,  and  a  harmonious  modulation 
of  colours.  In  spite  of  his  railing  against  subjects 
and  sentiments  however,  it  is  spiritual  sentiment 
rather  than  any  aesthetic  "note"  that  will  cause 
his  Nocturnes  to  endure,  and  in  the  best  of  his 
portraits  he  owed  much  oi"  his  success  to  the 
inspiration  of  his  subjects.  And  so  it  was  with 
Watts,  whose  art  was  conceived  for  the  general 
good,  but  whose  pictures  are  more  likely  to 
appeal  to  such  critics  of  the  subtler  phases  of 
beauty  as  can  appreciate  with  what  unique  pic- 
torial intuition  and  skill  he  gave  original  colour 
and  form  to  unoriginal  abstractions. 


It  is  quite  true  that  the  art  of  painting  deals  by 
preference    with    the    concrete    rather   than    the 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    123 

abstract,  with  the  evidence  of  things  seen  rather 
than  with  any  intangible  fabric  of  thought. 
Watts,  however,  demonstrated  that  thought  may 
be  given  a  deeper  and  intenser  life  through  con- 
crete form  and  colour  than  is  the  life  of  thoughts 
which,  although  forming  and  colouring  the  mind, 
have  never  found  pictorial  symbols  identical  with 
themselves.  Now,  even  as  Watts  disregarded  the 
rule  that  painting  should  avoid  the  abstract,  so 
Rodin  has  been  demolishing  our  traditional  con- 
ception of  sculpture  as  an  art  steeped  in  conven- 
tion and  remote  from  the  life  around  us,  a  Greek 
world  of  embodied  ideals  and  abstractions.  That 
sculpture  may  be  concrete  and  individual  in  char- 
acter was  first  revealed  by  the  Gothic  craftsman 
in  his  gargoyles  and  statued  saints.  What  the 
Italian  Renaissance  then  accomplished  was  to 
make  sculpture  pictorial  and  expressive  of  per- 
sonal conceptions.  It  remained  for  Rodin  to 
apply  realism  as  well  as  imagination  to  the 
plastic  depiction  of  life.  We  properly  think  of 
painting  as  Gothic  in  origin  and  of  sculpture  as 
essentially  Classic,  yet  the  genius  of  W\  tts  the 
painter  was  Classic  and  of  Rodin  the  sculptor 
Gothic.  Gilbert  Chesterton  once  wrote,  with 
more  sobriety  than  is  characteristic  of  his  cus- 
tomary epigram,  that  Pagan  art  deals  with  a 
light  shining  on  things.  Christian  art  with  the 
light  shining  through  them.  To  put  it  in  another 
way,  the  classical  artist  has  the  detachment  of 
vision  that  would  rest  content  with  giving  simple 


I  '.' 


124       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

and  final  substance  to  thought,  whereas  the 
Gothic  artist  draws  ceaselessly  upon  his  fervent 
imagination  to  draw  thought  from  substance. 
Watts,  influenced  by  Plato  and  Pheidias,  aspired 
to  give  symbolical  shape  to  the  epic  oneness  of 
creation.  Rodin,  influenced  by  Dante  and  Dona- 
tello,  tries  to  reveal  subtleties  of  sense  and  emo- 
tion, to  give  shape  not  to  life's  epic  oneness,  but 
rather  to  its  dramatic  many-sidedness.  Most 
sculpture  is  abstract  and  static,  Rodin's  is  con- 
crete and  dynamic.  Put  his  "Penseur"  by  the 
side  of  a  marble  Faun  of  ancient  Greece  and 
behold  the  difference  between  the  virile  animal 
body  of  Man  —  shaken  with  passion  and  aspiring 
purpose,  and  the  serenely  exquisite  body  of  the 
old  myth-maker's  dream.  Most  sculptors,  fol- 
lowing the  classic  standards,  convert  life  into  art. 
Rodin  converts  the  raw  materials  of  his  craft 
into  a  new  creation,  a  re-shaping  of  his  hired 
models  so  that  they  live  again  as  symbols  of 
elemental  things,  of  Man  in  his  ugliness  and 
splendid  strength,  his  power  and  his  pity;  of 
Woman  in  her  tenderness  and  irresistible  grace, 
her  yielding  and  withholding.  And  in  leaving 
his  creations  unsevered  from  the  mass  of  marble 
or  bronze,  he  suggests  the  organic  union  of  life 
and  art,  life  that  is  the  root  of  art,  art  that  is  the 
flower  of  life.  All  art  is  symbolical  since  art  can 
only  appeal  to  the  intelligence  through  signs 
representing  a  thought  or  a  thing.  But  what  a 
diff^erence  may  exist  between  two  symbols,  both 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH     125 

precious  and  indispensable  in  their  own  way,  for 
instance,  between  a  peach  imitated  from  life  by 
Chardin  and  "The  Mystery  of  Existence"  shaped 
^n  bronze  by  St.  Gaudens.  The  mystery  of  exis- 
tence in  bronze,  how  vast  the  daring  of  it!  You 
may  see  this  marvellous,  nameless  creation  in  a 
suburban  cemetery  near  the  city  of  Washington. 
A  draped  figure  sits  erect  at  the  side  of  the  tomb. 
The  body  is  rigid  yet  under  firm  control.  Only 
the  face  is  bared  and  the  lean,  strong  arm  which 
supports  it.  The  features  are  also  fixed  and  the 
unseeing  eyes  gaze  into  infinity.  This  is  neither 
Man  nor  Woman,  for  it  is  both.  This  is  some- 
thing sexless  —  universal  —  inscrutable.  A  figure 
of  Grief  one  might  divine,  but  grief  seldom  is  so 
passionless.  The  eyes  have  the  rigidity  of  eyes 
that  can  no  longer  weep,  of  a  soul  from  which 
even  hope  has  long  since  fled.  Is  this  then 
"Despair"?  Some  have  suggested  "Nirvana," 
the  oblivion  for  which  the  Oriental  yearns.  But 
the  artist  who  made  this  thing  would  never  give 
his  symbol  a  definite  title.  Once  only  he  is 
quoted  as  remarking  —  "What  did  I  mean  to 
express  ?  Oh,  I  suppose,  the  mystery  of  the  whole 
affair."  One  thinks  of  Shakespeare,  of  the  signifi- 
cant lines 

"We  are  such  stuiFas  dreams  are  made  on, 
And  our  little  life  is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

To  those  then  who  claim  that  the  pictorial  and 
plastic  arts  are  incapable  of  properly  expressing 


ij6       the  enchantment  OF  ART 


thought  and  emotion,  and  should  confine  their 
efforts  to  the  production  of  visual  effects,  xsthetic 
or  scientific,  there  is  only  one  answer.  The 
painter  has  just  as  much  right  to  describe  his 
thoughts  through  colour  and  form  as  the  writer  to 
describe  his  observations  through  language.  The 
only  rule  that  each  must  observe  is  —  "To  your 
own  art  be  true."  When  the  writer  is  attempting 
a  landscape  or  a  portrait,  he  must  keep  his  readers 
mindful  that  his  pictures  are  only  painted  with 
words,  literary  suggestions  of  pictures,  and  when 
the  painter  is  trying  to  express  his  thoughts, 
he  must  give  them  each  a  visual  unity  of  con- 
ception so  that,  intent  only  on  the  colours  and 
forms,  we  may  look  not  for  literary  ideas  but  for 
the  pictorial  suggestions  of  ideas.  Emphatically 
paintings  can  and  should  deal  with  the  mind  and 
the  emotions,  provided  they  act  through  the 
direct  agency  of  the  eyes.  And  so,  if  we  are  in- 
formed that  the  subjects  of  pictures  do  not  mat- 
ter, let  U5>  merely  point  to  Rembrandt's  "Supper 
at  Emmaus"  and  enquire  wherein  lies  the  great- 
ness of  this  little  canvas  save  in  the  inspiration 
the  artist  derived  from  his  subject.  And  if  they 
tell  us  that  painting  cannot  embody  thought,  nor 
sculpture  draw  thought  from  substance,  let  us 
lead  them  to  Watts  and  to  Rodin  and  allow  these 
giants  to  speak  for  themselves.  Finally,  if  in 
turn  we  wish  to  demonstrate  that  the  true  artists 
among  the  advocates  of  art  for  art's  sake  do  not 
mean  all  that  they  say  nor  practice  all  that  they 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    127 

preach,  we  need  go  no  farther  for  an  illustration 
than  Whistler's  portrait  of  his  mother.  This  is 
primarily  a  very  personal,  a  very  beautiful  tribute 
to  motherhood.  Yet  it  is  at  the  same  time  a 
decorative  design  of  originality  and  charm.  And 
here  we  may  know  the  reason  why  Whistler  is  a 
greater  painter  than  Watts.  He  was  always  true 
to  his  art,  always  decorative.  For,  in  the  last 
analysis,  although  painting  may  incidentally  be 
useful,  instructive,  entertaining,  edifying  or  the 
reverse  of  these  things,  its  original  and  funda- 
mental function  is  not  intellectual  but  aesthetic, 
not  to  criticise  life  but  to  decorate  it.  It  may 
imitate  a  peach  or  express  the  sympathy  of 
Christ,  but  in  either  case  its  highest  purpose  is  to 
create  a  thing  of  beauty  that  shall  be  to  us  a  joy 
forever.  Life  indeed  contains  all  that  we  need  of 
beauty,  the  constituents  of  all  colour,  the  ma- 
terials of  all  form.  But  alas,  while  a  wonderful 
accident  of  light  is  for  a  moment  transforming 
our  earth  into  a  realm  of  enchantment,  we  are 
thinking  of  the  price  of  a  certain  commodity  in  a 
certain  market,  or  of  what  we  said  last  week  and 
wish  we  hadn't  said,  or  perhaps  we  are  not 
thinking  at  all.  And  verily  we  have  eyes  and  see 
not  and  the  beauty  of  the  moment  passes  as  if  for 
us  it  had  never  been.  But  the  true  artist  and  the 
genuine  lover  of  art,  the  creator  who  finds  pictures  in 
nature  and  the  critic  who  finds  nature  in  pictures, 
they  have  eyes  if  they  have  nothing  else.  They 
may  be  without  the  price  of  a  meal  ticket,  but 


u-' 


128      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

they  possess  the  sense  of  beauty  and  as  long  as 
they  nourish  and  cherish  such  a  living  joy  in  their 
hearts,  life  may  be  tragic  or  sordid,   but  never 
uninteresting.     The   ascent   of  the   mountain   of 
endeavour  may  seem  to  them  a  particularly  steep 
and   arduous  pilgrimage  but  they  will  never  be 
blind  to  the  beauties  on  the  way,  they  will  always 
find  time  to  draw  deep  breaths  of  tonic  air  and 
enjoy  the  view.     And  whether  or  not  they  scale 
the  mountain  to  its  cloudy  pinnacle,  as  long  as 
they  breathe  the  air  that  is  made  of  dreams  there 
is  nothing  so  real  but  shall  have  a  fascination, 
and  nothing  so  strange  but  imagination  can  make 
it  real.     And    the  creators  who  see    beauty  and 
feel  it,  and  then  through  a  mystical  wizardry  of 
their  own,  record  it  with  a  new  glamour  which, 
but  for  them,  we  should  never  have  known,  they 
are   the   harps   through   which   the   winds  of  all 
experience  may  play.     The  influence  of  great  art 
upon  receptive  spirits  is  as  great  as  any  influence 
on  earth.     Great  art  passes  into  our  conscious- 
ness, there  to  abide.     We  may  no  longer  see  the 
morning  sunlight  stream  across  a  space  of  bare 
white   wall   or   fall   upon    a   piece   of  deep    blue 
velvet    without    thinking    how    Vermeer    could 
quicken  the  pulse  of  aesthetic  pleasure  with   his 
transcripts  of  just  such  simple  things.     We  may 
no  longer  feel  the  spell  of  woodland  twilight  when 
the  dew  silvers  the  tremulous  green  leaves,  and 
the   apricot  glow  of   dawning  or  departing  day 
flushes  the  far  horizons,  without  summoning  the 


I 


ART  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  TRUTH    1-59 

joyous  spirit  of  Corot  and  entering  once  more 
that  spirit-land  from  which  it  is  such  effort  to 
awake.  I  remember  a  little  picture  in  Amster- 
dam, by  that  unique  painter  Matthew  Maris, 
which  stirred  me  strangely  when  I  saw  it,  and 
which  haunts  me  yet.  It  was  a  subtle  effect  of 
atmosphere,  a  village  street  in  partial  shadow,  its 
quaint  gray  houses  dark  against  a  sky  all  flooded 
with  white  light.  Somewhere  I  had  seen  just 
such  an  effect.  Suddenly  a  lost  moment  was 
restored  to  me  and  recorded  on  canvas,  a  rare, 
rich  moment  of  unusual  perception  selected  from 
ten  thousand  by  a  man  who  knew  how  to  see, 
by  an  artist  who  could  give  his  vision  permanence. 
That  is  pictorial  art  in  its  essential  relation  to 
life;  art  for  the  sake  of  nothing  save  only  Beauty, 
and  for  the  sake  of  that  incomparable  joy  with 
which  Beauty  thrills  the  soul. 


"I 


i>  i   f 


f    '. 


VIII 
IMPRESSIONISM   IN  PROSE 

IN  the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture  the 
meaning  of  the  word  Impressionism  seems 
obvious  enough.  It  is  almost  self-evident 
that  for  the  mind  to  formulate  what  the  eye 
has  seen  implies  the  existence  of  a  mental  im- 
pression, and  for  the  hand  to  transfer  that  impres- 
sion intact  into  visible  symbols  of  colour  and 
form,  so  that,  with  its  original  thrill  preserved 
and  crystallized,  it  may  be  shared  by  all,  implies 
the  possession  of  that  skill  which  we  associate 
with  successful  accomplishment  in  all  the  repre- 
sentative arts.  In  attempting  now  to  analyze 
what  is  impressionistic  in  literature,  is  it  not 
reasonable  to  apply  the  same  test,  to  search  for 
the  same  unified  and  definite  mental  impression, 
expressed  in  unified  and  definite  symbols,  not 
this  time  of  colour  and  clay  but  of  words? 
When  we  find  a  poem,  or  a  story,  or  a  descrip- 
tion, or  a  criticism,  in  which  we  recognize  the 
author's  purpose  to  conceive  and  his  power  to 
create  an  accurate  transcript  of  that  which  has 
impressed  him  definitely  and  vividly,  then  surely 
we  have  to  do  with  that  similarly  emotional  sense 
of  single  effects  which  in  the  representative  arts 
we  call  Impressionism. 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE  131 

Every  good  painter  knows  that  the  important 
thing  for  him  to  keep  in  mind  is  that  there  must 
be  an  emotional  unity  to  his  conception  and  a 
visual  unity  to  his  creation.  There  are  many 
rules  to  observe,  rules  for  the  most  decorative 
design  of  a  given  space  and  for  the  best  pictorial 
representation  of  a  chosen  subject.  But  they 
can  all  be  summed  up  in  the  one  word  Unity. 
The  colour  must  work  in  sympathy  with  the  design 
in  order  to  affect  the  eye  with  one  and  only  one 
sensation.  If  the  lines,  instead  of  being  carefully 
balanced  and  co-ordinated  in  a  deliberate  arrange- 
ment, strike  off  on  their  own  initiative,  cutting  a 
picture  into  two  parts,  or  worse  yet,  one  and  a 
half,  and  if  the  colours  are  unfriendly  to  each  other 
and  heedless  of  that  unity  of  ensemble  which 
must  prevail  between  them  in  order  to  establish 
tone,  then  the  decorative  phase  of  the  painter's 
work  will  be  a  failure.  And  it  is  no  less  true 
that  there  must  be  one  subject  to  a  picture  and 
only  one;  one  impression  impressed  upon  the 
observer,  and  everything  that  does  not  contribute 
to  that  one  impression  ruthlessly  suppressed  or 
sacrificed.  For  in  the  last  analysis  the  impression 
is  the  picture. 

Now  this  Unity  —  unity  of  subject  and  of 
treatment  —  must  also  be  strictly  observed  when- 
ever in  the  art  of  literature  the  writer  purposes 
to  create  and  leave  uoon  the  mind  one  definite 
impression.  It  may  be  a  word-picture  that  he 
wishes  to  pa»nt  —  a  portrait,  a  genre,  a  landscape. 


Ill 


i  1, 


132      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

In  any  case  he  must  go  about  his  task  with  the 
same  principles  and  the  same  care  in  observing 
them  by  judicious  use  of  language  as  the  painter 
with  his  brushes  and  pigments.  Then  again  it 
may  be  a  phrase  which  shall  cheer  the  spirit  with 
a  blithe  joy  or  trouble  it  with  a  vague  oppression; 
or  perhaps  the  recall  of  a  dream  which,  in  its 
turgid  flow  of  tired  thoughts,  generally  remains 
in  the  memory,  if  it  remains  at  all,  with  a  definite 
character  to  its  own  particular  chaos;  or  the 
embodiment  of  a  moment's  fancy;  or  the  defini- 
tion of  a  fleeting  sensation;  or  the  recognition  of 
a  passing  mood.  Many  literary  forms  are  inade- 
quate mediums  for  such  impressions.  There  must 
be  a  condensation  and  economy  of  means,  a 
scrupulous  expression  of  only  one  thing  at  a  time 
that  would  rob  the  world  of  some  of  its  finest 
wisdom  and  imagination  if  applied  to  epic, 
elegiac,  or  idyllic  poetry,  to  history,  philosophy, 
prolonged  narrative  and  the  more  ambitious  kinds 
of  drama.  Impressionistic  methods  may  be  em- 
ployed to  advantage  in  any  of  these  literary 
forms,  but  the  impressionistic  principle  should 
never  be  allowed  to  control  invention  so  as  to 
become  either  a  barrier  to  thought  or  a  check  to 
fancy. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that,  as  Pater  pointed  out, 
romantic  temperament  and  classic  taste  have 
existed  almost  from  the  beginning  of  literature, 
the  impressionism  which  is  the  product  of  their 
union,  at  least  impressionism  in  prose,  is  distinctly 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE  133 

a  modern  development.  Before  its  specialized 
appeal  could  be  comprehended  the  banner  of  "art 
for  art's  sake"  had  to  be  flaunted  broadcast,  and 
if  not  unchallenged,  at  least  followed  by  many 
and  respected  by  all  as  a  new  force  to  be  reckoned 
with.  To-day,  it  is  most  clearly  seen  in  such 
typical  modern  mediums  as  the  subjective  criti- 
cism and  description,  in  such  typically  modern 
artists  as  Walter  Pater,  Lafcadio  Hearn  and 
John  Galsworthy.  In  the  most  intimate  books  of 
these  great  artists  are  to  be  found  those  fascinat- 
ing subtleties  of  perception  and  delicacies  of  expres- 
sion, and  those  unified  effects  of  allied  strangeness 
and  beauty,  which,  I  dare  to  suggest,  might  properly 
be  recognized  as  representative  of  what  is  best  in 
literary  impressionism. 


Ffii 


WALTER   PATER 

Although  certainly  one  of  the  most  unique  and 
brilliant  writers  in  the  history  of  English  litera- 
ture, it  is  extremely  doubtful  whether  Walter 
Pater  will  ever  be  popular  with  the  general 
public.  His  appeal  during  his  life  was  confined 
to  those  students  of  what  is  exquisite  and  some- 
what exotic  in  art  who,  as  Arthur  Symons  put  it, 
"take  their  artistic  pleasures  consciously,  de- 
liberately and  critically  with  the  learned  love  of 
the  amateur."  And  so  it  must  ever  be  with  such 
an  artist  as  Pater.  To  the  many  for  whom 
things  aesthetic  are  merely  high-sounding  names 
his  writings  must  seem  both  affected  and  arti- 


1 


Vh 


M 


134      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

ficial.  He  is,  however,  among  friends,  in  the 
company  of  those  kindred  spirits  who  really  under- 
stand what  it  means  to  live  a  moment's  experi- 
ence to  its  utmost  capacity,  to  keep  eye  and 
mind,  spirit  and  sense  wide  awake  to  every 
influence  of  strangeness  and  beauty,  and  to 
cherish,  in  spite  of  bewildering  pre-occupations, 
"one's  own  dream  of  a  world."  One  of  our  most 
scholarly  critics,  Paul  Elmer  More,  recently  re- 
opened an  old  case  against  Pater  —  his  principal 
charge  being  that  as  chief  of  the  so-called 
iEsthetic  School  of  Philosophy,  he  disregarded 
ethics  and  unwittingly  enervated  impressionable 
youth  with  luxurious  phrases  that  presented  a 
perverted  estimate  of  life's  values.  Now  to 
insinuate,  as  Mr.  More  evidently  means  to  do, 
that  Pater's  thought  was  immoral  because  it  was 
in  substance  frankly  unmoral  —  is  to  propound 
the  dogma  that  literature  unlike  the  other  arts 
may  not  stimulate  the  sense  of  pure  beauty,  the 
appreciation  of  art  for  its  own  sake.  No  one 
would  think  of  condemning  a  pastoral  by  Gior- 
gione  or  a  Nocturne  by  Chopin  because  the 
didactic  element  in  each  is  lacking.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  such  creations  are  altogether  un- 
moral, they  never  fail  to  quicken  our  sense  of  the 
loveliness  that  enriches  the  world,  and  we  are 
grateful  for  the  pure  pleasure  that  they  hring. 
It  is  just  this  quality  which  distinguishes  the 
prose  of  Walter  Pater  —  a  lyrical  quality  of 
style    which    stirs   the    pulses    through    inherent 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


135 


glamour,  a  lyrical  quality  of  mind  which  per- 
ceives and  reveals  what  is  lyrical  in  art  and  life. 
We  must  not  go  to  Pater  for  instruction  nor  for 
edification.  We  must  go  to  him  as  we  go  to 
Giorgione  and  to  Chopin  for  the  delicate  beauty 
that  will  charm  and  soothe  us  and  gently  minister 
to  our  passing  moods. 

Some  philosophers  and  critics  have  discovered 
that  Pater  was  neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  critic, 
but  on  the  contrary  a  disturber  of  sound  princi- 
ples in  philosophy  and  criticism.  No  one  would 
have  been  rrore  willing  to  admit  the  truth  of 
these  contentions  than  Pater  himself.  He  real- 
ized that  his  way  of  thought  was  that  of  the 
whimsical  and  dreamful  artist  rather  than  of  the 
authoritative  scholar  and  connoisseur.  Never  did 
he  try  to  force  his  ideas  upon  an  unwilling  or 
incredulous  ear,  never  was  he  intolerant  or  im- 
patient with  those  who  cared  more  for  the 
substantial  structure  of  facts  than  the  filmy 
illusions  of  dreams.  That  in  giving  voice  to  his 
reflections  he  chose  to  appear  as  the  philosopher 
rather  than  as  the  poet  was  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  his  realization  that  he  was  endowed 
not  merely  with  the  perfect  sense  of  beauty,  but 
with  the  far  more  exceptional  power  of  tracking 
through  translucent  analysis  the  joy  of  an 
aesthetic  sensation  to  its  source.  For  him  there 
was  a  rapture  in  clear  thinking  and  critical  dis- 
cernment. He  was  altogether  out  of  sympathy 
with  the  philosophy  that  deals  only  in  abstrac- 


.11 

< 


'  I 


136      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

tions,  the  philosophy  that  in  Michelet's  phrase 
"muddles  the  mind  methodically."  Philosophy,  he 
thought,  should  serve  culture.  "  For  us  of  the  mod- 
ern world,  distracted  by  so  bewildering  an  experience, 
the  problem  of  unity  with  ourselves  in  blitheness 
and  repose  is  far  harder  than  it  was  for  the  Greek 
within  the  simple  terms  of  antique  life.  The 
pure  instinct  of  self-culture  cares  not  so  much  to 
reap  all  that  these  various  forms  of  culture  can 
give,  as  to  find  in  them  its  own  strength,  to 
struggle  with  them  till  the  secret  is  won  from 
each.  The  demand  of  the  intellect  is  ever  to 
feel  itself  alive."  This  passage  from  the  essay  on 
Winckelmann  clearly  expresses  the  dominant  motive 
of  Pater's  life  and  art.  Pater  was  an  oracle  in  the 
temple  of  Beauty,  an  interpreter  of  strange  dreams 
and  secrets  of  the  soul.  His  original  achievements 
were  two.  He  created  a  new  art,  the  art  of 
imaginative  criticism,  and  he  dared  to  emphasize 
the  idea  that  spirit  and  sense  may  be  very  closely 
allied  —  that  actual  sensation  depends  upon  the 
spirit  for  potency  of  effect  and  that  spiritual 
emotion  may  be  cradled  and  nurtured  by  the 
senses. 

In  criticism  no  less  than  in  philosophy  the 
genius  of  Pater  was  subjective.  Although  seldom 
speaking  in  the  first  person  singular,  and  thus 
avoiding  the  appearance  of  egotism.  Pater  was 
really  so  self-centred  that  he  could  only  under- 
stand his  own  point  of  view.  He  always  selected 
for  analysis  such  artists  as  could  give  him  hints 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


137 


of  delicate  emotions  and  subtle  conceptions  quick- 
ened, through  sympathetic  suggestion,  within  his 
own  brain.  His  "Marius,"  and  others  of  his  im- 
aginary portraits,  were  but  masks  behind  which 
he  could  give  way  freely  to  his  own  moods. 
They  are  only  shadowy  phantoms  of  the  mind  — 
these  characters  he  fashioned;  the  mere  fabric  of 
day  dreams  —  the  outward  semblance  of  souls 
apprehended  at  their  unguarded  hours.  It  was 
their  maker's  guiding  principle  as  critic  to  regard 
"  all  works  of  art  and  the  fairer  forms  of  nature  as 
powers  or  forces  producing  pleasurable  sensations, 
each  of  a  more  or  less  unique  kind."  It  was  his  aim 
to  analyze  these  sensations  and  to  distinguish  the 
peculiar  quality  in  a  landscape  or  book  or  person 
that  could  produce  so  fine  a  thrilling  of  the  mind 
and  the  emotions.  Once  dimly  yet  vividly  dis- 
covered, as  we  discover  secrets  in  a  dream,  this 
inner  quality  gave  him  ample  opportunity  for  far 
flights  of  creative  fancy  and  of  imaginative 
reason.  So  —  from  the  mysterious  eyes  and 
mouth  of  Leonardo's  Lady  Lisa  a  hint  of  some- 
thing eternally  subtle  and  disquieting  stirred  his 
brain  to  that  famous  fantasy  on  "a  beauty 
wrought  out  from  within,"  "the  deposit  little  cell 
by  cell  of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries 
and  exquisite  passions;"  a  troubled  beauty  into 
which  "the  soul  with  all  its  maladies  has  passed." 
Da  Vinci's  adventurous  passion  for  experiment 
with  potential  elements  of  mind  and  matter 
enchanted  Pater  so  that  he  represented  him  as  a 


1 


1  !;; 


I 
If 


138      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

dreamer  seeking  "glimpses  of  beauty  and  terror 
in  the  strange  eyes  of  chance  people  whom  he 
followed  about  the  streets  of  Florence  till  the  sun 
went  down."  We  are  granted  a  vision  of  a 
mysterious  genius,  haunting  and  overwhelming 
his  friends  "like  one  who  comes  across  them  by 
chance  on  some  secret  errand."  In  paintings  of 
the  school  of  Giorgione  he  delighted  in  various 
anticipations  of  modern  impressionism,  in  acci- 
dental effects  of  light  over  lOvely  landscapes,  in 
the  rapid  transition  of  thought  on  eager  faces, 
in  the  sense  of  make-believe  or,  better  yet,  of 
music  "as  of  an  instrument  sounded  in  the 
twilight  as  one  passes  through  an  unfamiliar  room 
in  a  strange  company."  And  in  nearly  all  his 
subjects  he  found  himself.  In  Wordsworth  he 
detected  his  own  love  of  retrospect  and  "impas- 
sioned contemplation,"  in  Lamb,  his  own  fine 
sense  of  words  and  of  the  "little  arts  of  happiness 
in  life,"  in  Coleridge  his  own  passion  for  meta- 
physical synthesis  and  the  allure  of  mingled 
strangeness  and  beauty.  But  nearest  to  him  of 
all  the  artists  of  the  past  whom  he  so  eagerly 
studied  was  Watteau,  truly  the  "  Prince  of  Court 
Painters;"  he  who  rehearsed  the  garden-comedy 
of  life  on  "windless  afternoons,  with  the  storm 
always  brooding  through  the  massy  splendour  of 
the  trees;"  who  in  his  mellow  visions  seemed  to 
be  cherishing  a  dream  of  spiritual  elegance  and 
grace,  sad  with  the  fear  that  such  a  thing  could 
never  be. 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE  139 

Very  fascinating  are  the  subjects  of  Pater's 
studies  and  dreams,  subjects  that  fascinate  even 
in  bare  outline  and  quite  overpower  the  receptive 
mind  when  coloured  and  shaped  to  a  semblance  of 
life  in  days  of  old,  not  of  necessity  as  it  actually 
was,  but  as  it  might  have  been,  as  we  might 
acknowledge  it  to  have  been,  could  we  actually 
have  known  the  secrets  of  a  vanished  artist's 
innermost  intention,  could  we  actually  have  heard 
the  talk,  and  caught  the  spirit  of  a  vanished 
epoch.  Passing  through  the  alembic  of  a  modern 
scholar's  revery,  through  a  poet's  decorative  imagi- 
nation and  a  psychologist's  refinement  of  insight, 
history  and  legend,  art  and  literature  take  on 
new  glamour  that  is  less  than  half  their  own. 
It  is  entirely  conceivable  that  standing  before  a 
painting  by  Botticelli  our  thoughts  should  wander 
to  Pater's  criticism  of  the  painting  —  that  we 
should  thus  come  to  realize  that  the  painting 
means  less  to  us  than  the  criticism.  We  Anglo- 
Saxons  are  a  blunt,  outspoken  race,  never  prone 
to  fall  in  love  with  subtleties  of  perception  and 
delicacies  of  expression.  In  fact  we  are  inclined 
to  be  suspicious  of  a  man  whose  mind  we  cannot 
easily  understand,  and  a  little  contemptuous  also 
if,  in  all  seriousness,  he  keeps  talking  or  writing 
without  apparently  intending  either  to  teach  or 
preach.  We  demand,  in  art  as  in  life,  a  solid 
foundation  of  common  sense,  and  it  is  quite  true 
that  our  greatest  artists  have  possessed  that 
essential    sanity   of  genius   which   conquers   not 


:i 


Vii', 


140      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

merely  the  sensitive  culture  of  the  few  but  the 
sympathetic  intelligence  of  the  many.  For  this 
reason  Walter  Pater  can  never  be  a  popular  favour- 
ite, but  in  good  time  he  surely  will  come  unto  his 
own.  Then  shall  scholars  no  longer  find  fault 
with  his  scholarship  nor  protest  politely  about  his 
principles.  They  will  then  acclaim  him  the 
Keats  of  English  prose,  the  supreme  master  of 
the  ornate,  romantic  style.  Never  was  there  a 
writer  better  able  to  reveal  the  infnite  possi- 
bilities of  suggestion  latent  in  language;  to  divine 
also  the  inseparable  affinities  of  nouns  and  adjec- 
tives. As  for  the  spell  of  his  inversions  and 
mellifluous  cadences  it  is  a  spell  as  subtle,  and 
as  intricate  in  its  effect  on  the  ear  as  the  spell 
of  music.  I  for  one  prefer  a  simpler  and  less 
laboured  prose,  for  instance  the  untroubled  and 
easy  mastery  of  Lamb.  But  there  is  a  witchery 
about  the  style  of  Pater  —  an  indescribable  magic. 
It  is  so  full  of  languorous  and  monotonous  fasci- 
nation that  it  is  like  the  charm  of  some  tropical 
old-world  garden  steeped  in  moonlight,  where  one 
would  linger  many  dreamful  hours,  breathing  the 
drowsy  odour  of  strange  plants,  lulled  by  the 
falling  of  silver  spray  in  a  marble  fountain. 
With  Pater  there  was  an  ever-recurrent  desire  to 
produce  pre-arranged  sensations.  He  lived  by 
preference  in  the  remote  past,  in  the  blithe  world 
of  ancient  Hellas  or  in  the  Middle  Age  of  Europe 
just  at  the  dawning  of  the  modern  spirit.  The 
word   impressionism  never  occurs   in   his   books. 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


141 


and  he  never  attempted  to  keep  in  touch  with  the 
radical  innovations  of  his  time.  Nevertheless 
he  was  thoroughly  modern  in  temperament;  and 
in  his  art,  seeking  alike  the  satisfaction  of  his 
curiosity  and  of  his  desire  for  beauty,  and  striving 
to  express  complexities  of  mood  through  unities 
of  effect,  he  was  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word 
an  impressionist,  in  fact  the  one  self-conscious  and 
self-consecrated  prophet  of  impressionism. 


THE    SPELL   OF   THE    EAST 

We  all  have  known  people  of  taste,  of  tempera- 
ment, perhaps  even  of  talent,  "artistic  people" 
we  call  them,  who  somehow  seem  a  little  "dis- 
trait" about  their  pleasures,  a  little  panic-stricken 
about  their  lives,  looking  around  them  almost 
wildly  as  if  they  were  conscious  of  losing  their 
way,  with  the  night  closing  in  around  them. 
Eager  for  experience,  avid  of  beauty  and  its 
expression,  yet  they  seem  bewildered.  We  wish 
we  could  do  something  before  it  is  too  late  to 
help  them  find  their  way  out  of  the  luxuriant 
jungle  of  life's  conflicting  purposes.  Such  people 
sometimes  glimpse  the  way  from  afar  off  but 
struggle  towards  it  in  vain,  never  seeming  to  get 
much  nearer,  baffled  ever  by  distance  and  doubt 
and  distracting  circumstance.  Some  find  it  when 
the  day  is  spent.  A  few  are  led,  by  accident,  by 
grace  of  what  you  will,  through  the  maze  of  their 
own  mistakes,  to  the  path  they  were  meant  to 
travel. 


j'j. 
■  'I 

-!    if, 

u 


I) 


14a       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

There  are  many  instances  of  artists  who  have 
found   in  the  Orient  their  inspiration  —  who  in 
following    the    weirdly    beckoning    spirit    of   the 
East  have  obtained  the  release  of  baffled  powers 
which   else   had   never  won   fulfilment.     Edward 
Fitzgerald,  grim,  indolent  old  scholar  and  country 
gentleman,  had  few  interests  in  life  and  therefore 
wrote  half-heartedly  until  one  day  he  saw  in  the 
Bodleian  Library  that  which  was  to  emancipate 
his   spirit  — a    Persian   manuscript  —  purple   ink 
powdered    with   gold,    the   original    tert    of   the 
Rubaiyat    of    Omar    Khayam.    All    his    world- 
weariness  vanished  and  his  indolence  changed  to 
feverish  energy.    To-day  Fitzgerald  is  an  English 
classic  because  he  once  enjoyed  the  richness  of  a 
crinkly   Persian   parchment   and   was   moved    to 
make  a  garden  of  Persian  quatrains  grow  in  the 
soil  of  Anglo-Saxon  words.     Such  an  art  implies 
an  attitude.    As  Stevenson  recognized,  "Roman- 
ticism is  consciousness  of  the   background."     It 
was  the  taste  for  sumptuous   backgrounds  that 
sent  the  painters  Delacroix,  Decamps  and   Fro- 
mentin  to  the  Orient.    To  my  mind  it  is  only 
Decamps  who  had  the  Orient  in  his  own  soul  and 
was  able  therefore  to  bring  it  back  with  him  on 
canvas.     Whenever  I   am  in   Paris  I  go  to  the 
collection  Moreau  Nelaton  to  see  Decamps'  "Arab 
Army"  enveloped  in  sunset  mist.    Dimly,  in  the 
golden  distance,  may  be  seen  chariots  and  march- 
ing men,  but  the  substance  of  it  all  is  expressed 
in  the  splendour  of  one  turbaned  horseman  darkly 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


143 


silhouetted  against  a  sky  of  storm-swept    scarlet 
and  gold. 

It  was  Decamps  who  first  revealed  to  the  West 
how  a  Western  heart  can  feel  about  Eastern 
colour  To-day  we  are  passing  through  an  Oriental 
phase  of  dancing,  of  dress,  of  decoration.  Some 
of  the  greatest  living  painters,  notably  Albert 
Besnard,  have  responded  to  the  influence.  The 
stage  pictures  of  Leon  Bakst:  with  what  wizardry 
of  colour  he  tells  all  we  need  to  know  of  Cleopatra's 
Egypt  and  fabled  Bagdad!  To  appreciate  Bakst 
one  must  see  his  ensemble  —  one  must  share  his 
delight  in  the  heights  and  depths  of  the  stage,  the 
greatly  daring  lights  and  colours  and  costumes. 
And  yet  the  mere  cartoons  for  opera  and  ballet 
have  almost  as  much  intrinsic  merit  as  the  glow- 
ing Persian  miniatures  which  are  growing  so 
popular.  What  a  rich  humour,  too,  in  the  Bakst 
drawings!  I  recall  one  Mameluke  most  delectable 
in  his  fierceness  of  visage.  Scarcely  less  appealing 
both  to  the  general  public  and  to  those  who  know 
why  art  is  art,  are  the  colour-books  of  Edmond 
Dulac.  His  colors  he  has  found  in  ancient 
potteries  and  jewels.  Such  an  art  obviously 
implies  an  attitude,  but  most  assuredly  the  atti- 
tude does  not  imply  the  art.  Many  are  called  to 
express  the  glamour  of  the  Orient  but  few  are 
chosen.  Dulac's  pictures  for  the  Arabian  Nights 
fairly  reverberate  with  fantastic  laughter,  and  this 
is  also  true  of  the  book  decorated  by  our  own 
Maxfield   Parrish.    One  does  not  have  to  be  a 


i«- 


!'.' 


1 1' 


i 


■  'It:: 


u 


u 


144      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

child  to  enjoy  such  horrific  allurements.  The 
decorative  imagination  of  these  rare  artists  sends 
us  all  back  to  the  pungent  feast  of  fables  with 
renewed  relish.  Something  of  this  luxury  of 
mood  W.  R.  Benet  has  expressed  in  a  metrical 
appreciation  of  the  fair,  resourceful  Morgiana 
dancing  wildly  to  the  impending  doom  of  her 
master's  enemy,  the  last  of  the  forty  thieves. 

Scarves  about  my  head  —  so! 

Silver  girdle  flash  —  ho! 
Round  again  again  we  go, 
Round  again  again  we  go. 

Chalk  upon  the  panel  there. 

Oil  upon  the  pave  there, 
A  guest  ho!  A  guest  ho! 

A  sweet  guest  —  ho! 

Poniard  at  my  breast  so! 
Poniard  at  thy  breast  ho! 

Round  again  again  we  go, 

Round  again  again  we  go. 
Here's  a  dagger's  smart  should  be 

Salt  for  your  villany. 
A  guest  ho!  a  guest  hoi 

A  dead  guest  hoi 

By  way  of  this  impressionistic  verse  I  may 
retrace  my  steps  to  my  subject  "Impressionism 
in  Prose."  Of  the  many  distinguished  writers  of 
our  own  tongue  who  responded  to  Oriental  in- 
spiration —  such  men  as  Edwin  Arnold,  Richard 
Burton,    Bayard   Taylor,    Rudyard    Kipling,   the 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE  14s 

only  conscious  impressionist  of  them  all  is  Kipling. 
He  introduced  to  literature  British  India;  a  land 
where  old  gods  make  way  for  modern  garrisons, 
where  soldiers  and  civilians  serve  their  time  on 
the  outposts  of  the  world.  Atmosphere  is  one  of 
the  distinctive  features  of  Kipling's  impression- 
ism. From  a  lofty  minaret  we  look  down  on  the 
moonlit  "City  of  Dreadful  Night"  — the  naked 
corpse-like  bodies  huddled  in  the  shadows  of  the 
moon  or  exposed  beneath  its  staring,  blazing  eye, 
the  long  road  laid  across  the  scorching  land 
"like  a  bar  of  burnished  steel;"  the  silver  light 
splashed  across  the  house-tops  where  men,  women 
and  children  kept  sighing  in  their  restlessness. 
But  it  is  not  alone  by  r'  «cription  that  he  can  create 
in  our  minds  the  sense  of  weather.  He  can  affect 
us  with  it  by  slipping  hints  i  ito  his  dialogue. 
Never  was  there  such  stifling,  sickening  heat  in 
the  pages  of  a  book  as  in  that  intolerably  pathetic 
story  "At  the  End  of  the  Passage."  It  is  a 
superb  bit  of  literary  impressionism. 

However,  Kipling  has  written  also  of  the  sea 
and  the  supernatural,  of  English  public  school 
and  country-house  life.  The  most  striking  case  of 
complete  absorption  of  the  Oriental  genius  by  a 
Western  artist  is  the  strange  case  of  Lafcadio 
Hearn.  Hearn  was  a  morbid,  unpleasant  fellow 
before  he  became  a  permanent  resident  of  Japan. 
He  hated  everything  others  liked  and  went  rest- 
lessly about  the  world  in  quest  of  new  sensations 
and  intellectual  excitements  to  satisfy  a  craving  he 


.^f* 

!*,', 


it' 


!■ 


hi 


146      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
scarcely  understood.     In  fact  he  was  well  on  his 
way  towards  becoming  an  English  version  of  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  whose  stories  he  translated,  or  per- 
haps another  Baudelaire.     In  other  words  he  was 
one  of  the  kind  who  scorn  the  brave  simplicities, 
preferring  man's  tricks  of  artifice  to  Nature's  open 
bounties,  giving  free  rein  to  the  capricious  devices 
of  a  jaded  and  unhealthy  imagination.     Suddenly 
in  a  book  by  Percival  Lowell  a  spirit  finger  pointed 
to  the  East.     In  the  Land  of  the  Rising  Sun,  of  old 
time,  a  land   of  ghosts  and   flowers,  the  god  he 
desired  to  worship  awaited  him  in  an  airy  temple. 
He  went  within  the  dragon-swarming  portals  and 
offered  sacrifice  at  the  Buddhist  shrine.     The  old 
order  even  then  was  changing,  but  enough  of  that 
archaic  civilization  remained  to  hold  him  spell- 
bound with  delight  and  wonder.     Here  were  new 
sensations  a-plenty.     Here  was  a  supreme  oppor- 
tunity for  the  art  of  a  master  to  evoke  the  body 
and  mind,  to  express  the  heart  and  soul  of  old 
Japan,  in  order  to  interpret  this  mysterious  pre- 
historic   civilization    to    the    Western    world    of 
totally    alien    sensibilities    and    perceptions.     For 
this   purpose   surely   Lafcadio   Hearn   was   born, 
with  his  craving  for  the  exotic  and  the  unearthly, 
with  his  sensibilities  as  tremulously  emotional  as 
a  child's,  with  his  matured  mastery  of  the  sub- 
tleties of  percept  and  concept,  and  the  delicacies 
of  language  and  the  arts. 

Of  all  the  strange  charms  that  stirred  his  spirit 
as  he  conducted  his  ecstatic  researches  into  the 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


147 


lives  and  legends  of  the  Japanese,  the  one  which 
cast  the  most  potent  spell  over  him  was  the  idea 
of  Karma,  or  the  transmigration  of  souls.  He 
even  essayed  to  reconcile  this  Eastern  doctrine 
to  the  Evolution  of  the  West.  But  I  am  inclined 
to  feel  that  his  Buddhism  need  not  be  taken  any 
more  seriously  than  his  professed  devotion  to 
Darwin  and  Spencer.  Essentially  this  man  was 
neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  scientist,  but  a  poet 
and  an  artist.  In  Japan  he  found  a  civilization 
older  and  more  bizarre,  hence  to  him  more  ap- 
pealing, than  the  long  vanished  civilization  of 
ancient  Greece.  He  entered  into  this  incredible 
world  exulting  in  its  strangeness  and  charm. 
The  simplest  revelations  of  Japanese  character, 
the  most  casual  corners  of  Japanese  scenery,  the 
most  trifling  scraps  of  Japanese  folk-lore,  filled 
him  with  aesthetic  pleasure,  with  the  new  sensa- 
tions and  hitellectual  excitements  which  amid  all 
the  complexities  of  Europe  and  America  he  could 
not  find.  And  yet  so  perfect  was  his  art  and  so 
genuine  his  inspiration  that  the  filmy  cobwebs  of 
ghostly  legend  and  the  tiny  dewdrops  of  poetic 
fancy  which  he  found  sparkling  on  the  surface  of 
common  life  were  transmuted  into  pearls  through 
the  sympathy  and  insight  of  his  translations. 
Here  is  a  poem  on  the  firefly  which  so  deeply 
appeals  to  the  Japanese  aesthetic  sense: 

"  Because  it  is  speechless  though  burning  with  desire 
the  firefly  is  more  worthy  of  our  pity  than  insects 
that  cry  out." 


•1 .1 


:  ,1 


l>. 


t     4ft 


u< 


148      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
And  here  is  another  —  a  veritable  epigram: 

"Would  that  I  might  always  keep  my  butterfly- 
pursuing  heart." 

We  do  not  think  of  the  girl  who  composed  the 
verse  but  of  the  man  who  translated  it.  How 
pathetic  that  poor  Hearn,  he  of  the  eccentric  and 
irregular  life,  should  have  a  "butterfly-pursuing 
heart."  Yet  that  line  expresses  him  and  his  life- 
work.  He  was  always  seeking  the  beauty  of  little 
things,  the  beauty  that  lingers  but  for  a  moment, 
delicate  in  colour,  fugitive  of  wing.  It  was  the 
impressionism  ingrained  in  the  Japanese,  both  in 
the  outward  appearance  and  in  the  inward  signifi- 
cance of  their  life  and  art  —  that  brought  out  the 
impressionism  of  his  own  nature. 

All  of  Hearn  that  really  matters  —  Hearn  the 
Mystic  and  Hearn  the  Impressionist,  may  be 
found  in  one  precious  rhapsody  entitled  "Horai." 
This  Is  not  as  truly  the  Chinese  conception  of 
heaven  as  the  Japanese  heaven  on  earth  of  his 
own  unattainable  ideal.  The  ethnologist  was 
not  so  much  concerned  with  facts  about  the  old 
Japan  of  cruel  feudal  wars,  as  was  the  artist  with 
his  luminous  dreams  of  a  spirit-world  too  beauti- 
ful to  be  true.  Like  Leonardo  he  burned  to 
communicate  the  incommunicable,  and  to  formu- 
late the  intangible.  Only  a  few  years  ago  I  was 
sailing  on  the  pale  waters  of  the  Inland  Sea.  It 
was  a  pearly  evening.  A  veil  of  opalescent  air 
enfolded  me.    The  distant  hills  were  violet,  the 


I  I 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE  149 

clouds  were  rose  in  the  misty  sunlight.  For  a 
few  enchanted  moments  I  could  almost  see 
Hearn's  vision  of  a  mortal  fairy-land,  suspended 
be*^'veen  earth  and  heaven. 

rilue  vision  of  depth  lost  in  height,  sea  and 
sky  interblending.  .  .  .  one  azure  enormity.  But 
far  away  in  the  midway  blue  hangs  a  faint,  faint 
vision  of  palace  towers,  with  high  roofs  curved 
like  moons,  shadowing  of  a  splendour  strange  and 
old,  illumined  by  a  sunshine  soft  as  memory. 
These  are  the  glimmering  portals  of  Horai  the 
blest.  In  Horai  the  flowers  never  fade,  and  the 
fruits  never  fail,  and  the  magical  grass  is  watered 
by  a  fairy  water  of  which  a  single  drink  confers 
perpetual  youth.  But  the  most  wonderful  thing 
of  all  is  the  atmosphere.  The  sunshine  is  whiter 
than  any  other  sunshine,  a  milky  white  that 
never  dazzles.  The  atmosphere  is  not  of  our 
period.  It  is  enormously  old,  and  it  is  made  not 
of  air  bu^  of  ghosts,  blended  into  one  immense 
translucency.  Whatever  mortal  man  inhales  that 
atmosphere  he  takes  into  his  blood  the  thrilling 
of  these  spirits,  and  they  change  the  senses  within 
him,  so  that  he  can  see  only  as  they  used  to  see, 
and  think  as  they  used  to  think,  and  feel  as  they 
used  to  feel.  Soft  as  sleep  are  these  changes  of 
sense.  In  Horai  the  hearts  of  the  people  never 
grow  old.  The  speech  of  the  women  is  like  bird 
song  because  the  hearts  of  them  are  light  as  the 
souls  of  birds;  and  the  swaying  of  the  sleeves  of 
the  maidens  at  play  seems  a  flutter  of  wide,  soft 


1 .,  j- 
'  1 

i 


■     i». 


n 


ISO       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

wings.  Nothing  is  hidden  but  grief,  because  there 
is  no  reason  for  shame,  and  by  night  as  by  day 
ail  doors  are  unbarred,  because  there  is  no  reason 
for  fear.  And  because  the  people,  though  mortal, 
arc  fairies,  all  things  are  small,  and  quaint  and 
queer.  Evil  winds  from  the  West  are  blowing 
over  Horai,  and  the  magical  atmosphere  is  shrink- 
ing before  them.  It  lingers  now  only  on  the  long 
bright  banks  of  clouds,  like  those  in  the  Japanese 
landscapes.  Under  these  elfish  vapours  you  may 
still  see  Horai,  but  not  elsewhere.  Remember  it 
is  only  Shinkiro,  which  signifies  mirage  —  the 
Vision  of  the  Intangible.  And  now  the  vision  is 
fading,  never  again  to  appear,  save  in  pictures  and 
poems  and  dreams." 

JOHN    GALSWORTHY 

The  novels  of  George  Meredith  afford  an  in- 
teresting example  of  impressionistic  temperament 
and  genius  richly  lavished  on  a  medium  which  is 
the  very  opposite  of  impressionism.  No  novelist 
has  ever  revealed  a  mind  quite  so  amazingly 
responsive  to  the  inner  life  of  moods  and  sensa- 
tions, quite  so  fond  of  effects,  serio-comic  and 
fantastic.  One  treasures  his  books  for  the  rich 
passages,  the  choice  pages  of  clever  mimicry, 
fanciful  day-dreaming,  brilliant  word-painting. 
If  Meredith  had  taken  the  prose  sketch  or  per- 
sonal essay  as  the  medium  for  his  genius  he  would 
have  been  the  greatest  of  all  literary  impres- 
sionists.    But  it  is  the  proper  purpose  of  the  novel 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


iSi 


to  see  life  as  it  is  —  a  strange  conglomeration  of 
conflicting  impressions.  To  preserve  unity  of 
effect  in  a  novel,  as  Hawthorne  preserved  it  in  the 
"Scarlet  Letter,"  is  to  write  a  lyric  novel  and 
sacrifice  much  that  properly  belongs  to  fiction. 
Before  the  publication  of  "The  Dark  Flower"  John 
Galsworthy  had  been  like  George  Meredith,  not 
so  truly  a  novelist  in  spite  of  his  impressionistic 
point  of  view  as  an  exceptional  novelist  because 
of  it.  To  appreciate,  however,  his  seeking  for 
curiosities  of  character  and  experience,  his  sensi- 
tiveness to  fine  moments  and  his  mastery  of 
single  effects,  one  had  to  put  aside  the  big  can- 
vases, the  novels  and  plays,  and  enjoy  the 
sketches  one  by  one. 

The  literary  sketch  may  be  dramatic,  lyric, 
realistic  or  fantastic.  It  may  be  the  record  of 
something  sharply  seen  or  vividly  imagined.  In 
either  case  all  that  was  elusive  in  an  observation 
or  evanescent  in  an  emotion  has  been  given  per- 
manence. In  Galsworthy's  "A  Motley"  we  pass 
from  one  phase  of  life  to  another,  from  one 
human  type  to  its  extreme  opposite.  The  tone 
of  this  book,  as  of  its  more  didactic  predecessor 
"A  Commentary,"  is  distinctly  gloomy.  Our  world 
is  evidently  a  cruel  world,  semi-barbarous,  in 
spite  of  that  veneer  of  civilization,  which  in  its 
ironical  power  to  inflict  suffering  is  perhaps  its 
most  cruel  attribute.  The  spectator  is  not  con- 
tent to  look  on  the  sunny  side  of  things  as  did 
Browning  and  Meredith.     He  hunts  for  tragedy 


j  f,l 


I   *«  :i 


<* 


'I' 


n 


152       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

and  he  finds  it.  He  finds  it  in  the  wounded  look 
and  dusty  yellow  skin  of  a  German  convict  who 
is  serving  life  imprisonment  in  solitary  confine- 
ment, who,  in  the  desolation  of  his  cell,  paints  a 
haunting  picture  of  all  the  sunshine  and  colour  and 
joy  that  his  starved  soul  has  (in  some  way)  created 
out  of  its  tortured  consciousness.  He  finds  it  in 
a  little  woman  of  the  slums,  who,  by  her  gallant 
toil,  supports  her  brute  of  a  husband  and  her 
litter  of  grown  boys,  who  creeps  into  bed  at  night 
wondering  whether  when  her  man  at  last  comes 
home  he  will  lash  her  with  words  and  blows  or 
leer  upon  her  lustfully.  But  sometimes  the  world 
seems  not  so  bad,  simply  sad  without  definite 
reason.  We  turn  a  page  and  from  an  illustration 
of  a  grim  truth  related  with  the  power  of  a  Zola 
we  now  enjoy  a  delicate  Meredithian  description 
of  an  emotional  experience,  related  for  no  other 
purpose  than  the  pleasure  of  its  subtlety;  the 
memory,  in  more  than  one  instance,  of  a  time  when, 
to  the  sensitive  mind,  the  visible  world  seemed  to 
symbolize  sentiments  vague  yet  vital.  In  the 
sketch  entitled  "A  Parting"  the  autumn  sunlight 
lingers  wearily  over  Kensington  Gardens,  a  few 
golden  leaves  clinging  to  the  trees  and  on  the 
ground  the  pattering  swirl  of  a  dog's  feet  ir.  the 
midst  of  leaf-mortality.  The  air  is  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  smoke  and  of  dry,  dusty  grass,  and  in 
the  heart  there  is  the  ache  of  nameless  fear,  of 
beauty  that  perishes.  Th*'  is  not  a  setting  for  a 
story.    The  setting  is  the  story.     We  are  simply 


I    } 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


153 


asked  to  stand  with  Mr.  Galsworthy  apart  to 
observe  and  overhear  a  man  and  a  woman  who 
seem  to  have  kept  a  tryst  for  the  last  time,  who 
cling  together  for  a  few  passionate  moments 
drinking  bitterness  from  each  other's  loving  eyes, 
and  then,  for  some  sad  sufficient  reason  of  their 
own,  part  for  always.  It  is  only  a  suggestion 
that  the  mind  may  follow  where  it  wills,  only  a 
fragment,  fugitive  and  tantalizing.  But  for  all 
the  wealth  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world,  close 
your  eyes  a  moment  and  think,  what  is  the  sum 
of  your  own  experience?  Only  a  portentous 
suggestion,  only  a  fragment  of  the  universal 
mystery,  only  a  vivid  sketch. 

As  I  have  already  written,  conscious,  deliberate 
impressionism  in  prose  is  a  modern  product.  It 
came  with  art  for  art's  sake  and  we  have  Walter 
Pater  to  thank  for  it.  Without  Pater's  influence 
we  might  never  have  been  able  to  appreciate  the 
fact  that  there  is  in  England  to-day  the  best  art 
critic  English  literature  has  produced,  Arthur 
Symons,  a  writer  whose  art  it  is  that  he  can 
estimate  in  crystal  phrases  just  what  artistic 
values  really  are,  who  can  interpret  an  artist  in 
terms  of  his  innermost  intention  and  facilitate 
interpretation  by  creating  a  criticism  of  identical 
quality  with  the  work  criticised.  Just  as  the 
pathiinding  Pater  by  revealing  the  luxury  of  clear 
thinking  made  possible  the  criticisms  of  the 
luxurious  Arthur  Symons,  so  the  pathfinding 
Meredith    by    revealing    the    intensity    of    per- 


^/ 


'  ■  4 
'J  If. 

I   !i- 


't'N 


IS4      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

sonal  impressionism  made  it  possible  for  the 
intense  Galsworthy  to  create  impressionistic 
sketches,  or  definite  personal  ways  of  saying 
definite  personal  things.  In  the  course  of  our 
supersensitive  twentieth-century  pruning  away  of 
everything  inessential  we  have  lost  much  that 
was  true  and  fine.  Some  writers,  of  course,  aie 
so  stung  with  the  rage  for  technical  perfection 
that  they  have  become  careless  whether  their 
hearts  are  where  they  should  be,  in  their  subjects 
rather  than  in  their  style.  This,  however,  is  not 
true  of  Galsworthy,  who  is  on  the  contrary  a 
reformer,  always  collecting  evidence,  always  seem- 
ing about  to  begin  a  vigorous  personal  arraign- 
ment. In  his  earlier  novels  we  felt  that  his 
canvases  were  too  big,  that  parts  were  better 
than  the  whole,  that  the  man  was  missing  the 
unity  which  he  so  desired.  At  last  he  did  a 
daring  thing.  He  took  one  theme  which  he 
might  have  done  in  twenty  pages,  wrote  it  novel- 
fashion  and  preserved  the  idea  intact  so  that  upon 
closing  the  book  we  carry  away  one  and  only  one 
impression.  Of  course  I  refer  to  "The  Dark 
Flower,"  a  genuine  lyric  novel.  Is  such  a  thing 
altogether  legitimate?  Perhaps  not.  Is  it  safe 
from  monotony?    Ah,  that  is  the  real  danger. 

The  burning  and  the  yearning  for  love,  that  is 
the  theme  of  "The  Dark  Flower, "  and  now  that  sex 
has  been  given  this  one  profoundly  thoughtful 
discussion  it  would  be  well  if  lesser  authors  would 
despair  of  competition  and   change  the  subject, 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  PROSE 


iSS 


for,  after  all,  there  are  other  things  in  life.  How- 
ever one  would  scarcely  think  so  from  a  reading 
of  "T.ie  Dark  Flower." 

It  is  a  book  for  those  who  have  had  their  hour  of 
stormful  love ;  the  kind  that  transfigures  earth  and 
sky,  that  becomes  "a  part  forever  of  the  stillness 
and  passion  of  a  summer  night;"  the  kind  that 
closes  its  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  beloved 
only  to  make  the  blessed  vision  ten  times  more 
visible;  the  kind  that  longs  for  the  steadfast 
peace  of  the  stars  yet  wonders  whether  there 
are  not  souls  in  trees;  the  kind  that  challenges 
gods  to  fight  and  yields  to  circumstance  at 
the  crisis.  It  is  such  stormful  love,  this  "love 
life  of  a  man."  Some  think  the  intensity  has 
been  sustained  too  long,  that  even  violins  must 
change  their  tone  or  they  become  intolerable 
violins.  But  if  "The  Dark  Flower"  suffers  from  its 
lyric  lengthiness,  yet  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  this  is  rather  because  of  our  too  susceptible 
sensibilities  than  because  of  any  tendency  on  the 
author's  part  to  fall  below  the  lyric  level.  Gals- 
worthy's insight  into  the  hearts  of  boys  and  girls, 
of  men  and  women,  is  something  very  precious 
because  it  is  so  full  of  compassionate  under- 
standing, and  of  exultation,  in  spite  of  everything, 
for  the  loveliness  of  love.  And  the  language 
is  marvellously  fine.  Abrupt  quotation  can  give 
no  adequate  conception  of  the  haunting,  magic 
beauty  with  which  scenes  are  described  and 
emotions  expressed. 


! 


,!l 


i 


'\.t: 
\  J 


156      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Here  in  a  sentence  is  the  quality  of  sunshine  in 
a   mountain   valley  of  the   Tyrol.  — "  Even   the 
feel  of  the  air  was  new,  that  delicious  crisp  burn- 
ing warmth  that  lay  so  lightly  on  the  surface  of 
frozen    stillness,    the    special    sweetness    too    of 
places  at  the  foot  of  mountains  —  scent  of  pine 
gum,    burning   larchwood    and    all    the    meadow 
flowers    and    grasses."    There    is    much    shrewd 
observation  of  character.     How  well  we  know  the 
old  Colonel.     "His  face  had  the  candour  of  one 
who  has  never  known  how  to  seek  adventures  of 
the  mind  but  always  sought  adventures  of  the 
body."     But  here  is  something  in  the  dominant 
strain:    "Climbing   up   above   the   road   he   lay 
down.     If  only  she  were  there  beside  him.    The 
fragrance  of  the  earth  not  yet  chilled  crept  up  to 
his  face  and  for  just  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him 
that  she  did  come.     If  he  could  only  keep  her 
there  forever  in  that  embrace  that  was  no  em- 
brace, that  ghostly  rapture.  .  .  .  Then  she  was 
gone.     His  hands  touched  nothing  but  crumpled 
pine    dust.     He    conjured    up    her   face    making 
certain  of  it.    The  whole  flying  loveliness  of  her. 
Then  he  leaped  down  to  the  road  and  ran.    One 
couldn't  walk  feeling  this  miracle." 

"The  Dark  Flower"  is  the  last  word  in  impres- 
sionistic prose,  a  lyric  that  is  to  all  appearances 
a  novel,  a  novel  that  is  as  direct  and  personal  as 
a  lyric. 


I'  ■' 


IX 

IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY 

POETRY  began  with  song  which  was  then 
the  mere  crude  expression  of  physical 
impulse.  Gradually  the  mind  developed 
and  its  ideas  soon  flowered  into  litera- 
ture. Artificial  at  first,  poets  learned  at  last  to 
speak  from  their  own  experience.  Poetry  grew 
fairer  and  stronger  as  time  went  on,  until  in  its 
happiest  hours,  in  ages  flushed  with  thrilling 
inspiration,  it  became  the  inevitable  expression  of 
man's  complex  inner  life,  as  Mathew  Arnold 
expressed  it  "the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 
knowledge."  Music  is  the  model  for  all  those 
arts  which  appeal  to  the  emotions  not  through  the 
reasoning  intelligence  but  directly  through  the 
senses,  since  in  its  perfect  union  of  form  and 
substance  it  realizes  their  ideal.  Literature,  how- 
ever, is  the  peer  of  all  the  arts,  because  its  domin- 
ion extends  not  only  over  the  five  kingdoms  of 
sense  but  also  over  the  vast  inexhaustible  continent 
of  human  thought. 

Of  late  realism  has  succeeded  romance,  while 
classification  and  criticism  almost  overwhelm 
artistic  creation.  The  craftsman  and  the  dilet- 
tante luxuriate  in  expressing  states  of  body  and 
moods  of  mind,  and  the  poet,  the  poet  of  an  age 


J 


in 


iS8       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

of  prose,  too  often  abandons  the  still  unexhausted 
continent  of  thought  to  return  to  the  five  king- 
doms of  sense,  there  to  dispute  the  sway  of 
sculpture,  painting  and  music.  An  age  of  science 
is  inevitably  aggressive  in  its  iconoclasm,  in  its 
intolerance  of  artistic  conventions  supposedly 
outworn.  For  better  or  worse  old  forms  and  old 
ideas  are  irreverently  cast  aside,  and  new  styles 
cleverly  adapted  to  new  subjects  proudly  intro- 
duced. Modern  poetry,  therefore,  preferably  lyric 
in  form,  must  now-a-days  be  spontaneous  and 
original.  It  may  be  slight  but  the  form  must  be 
in  perfect  harmony  with  the  subject.  Finally  it 
must  be  saturated  with  that  radical  something 
which  we  call  impressionism. 

It  is  true  that  we  have  come  to  associate  im- 
pressionism with  a  certain  school  of  modern  paint- 
ing, a  school  far  famed  for  the  rapid  noting  of 
elusive  appearance  as  opposed  to  the  accurate 
imitation  of  objects  as  they  really  are.  But  at  last 
the  word  should  be  given  its  true  meaning,  and 
made  definitely  descriptive  of  the  fundamental 
principle  of  all  the  representative  arts.  However, 
there  are  differences.  To  say  of  a  painting  that 
it  is  impressionistic  is  the  same  thing  as  to  say  of 
a  man  that  he  is  manly.  In  other  words,  both 
have  successfully  fulfilled  their  intended  function. 
Obviously,  a  vast  amount  of  the  world's  greatest 
poetry  could  not,  even  under  the  most  elastic 
stretching  of  the  term,  be  called  impressionistic. 
If  the  word  then  is  to  be  borrowed  from  the  repre- 


IMPRESSIOr  '  IM  IN  POETRY        159 

sentative  arts  for  ap  ation  to  poetry,  it  can 
only  be  used  in  connexion  with  such  poetry  as 
presents  single  impressions  through  definite  forms, 
even  as  sculpture  and  painting.  It  is  peculiarly 
attractive  to  modern  aesthetic  criticism  to  criticise 
one  art  in  terms  of  another.  Now  if  this  criticism 
is  indicative  of  the  work  criticised,  that  is,  if  a 
painter  has  indeed  consciously  attempted  to 
suggest  sound  and  a  musician  to  suggest  colour, 
then  these  artists  have  indulged  their  restless 
imagination  and  adventurous  skill  to  such  excess 
as  to  be  abnormally  impressionistic,  since  they 
have  broken  down  the  barrier  between  their  arts 
and  taken  to  imitating  each  other.  Such  is  the 
latest  phase  in  painting  and  music,  of  Cubism  on 
the  one  hand  and  of  Strauss  on  the  other.  In 
each  case  virtuosity  has  been  carried  to  extrava- 
gant triumph  and  the  end  is  not  yet.  Meanwhile 
a  contagious  fever  has  spread  through  modern 
poetry,  urging  it  out  of  its  infinite  capacity  to 
attempt  the  sensuous  and  subtly  suggestive  work 
of  the  other  arts,  and  it  is  to  this  phase  of  poetry 
in  its  manifold  variations  that  the  adjective  im- 
pressionistic may  be  properly  applied. 

Impressionism  in  poetry  then  implies  conscious 
effort,  deliberate  craft  and  such  temperament  as 
is  needed  not  only  for  talented  production  but 
for  successful  exhibition  of  talent.  Roughly 
speaking  there  are  in  the  repertoire  of  the  metrical 
impressionists  two  general  types  of  performance, 
the  display  of  old  effects  and  of  new  sensations. 


it  I 


1  >: 
■  < 


I  • 


II 


i6o       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Both  styles  arc  planned  and  executed  in  the  same 
way,  and  the  quickening  impulse  that  prompts 
their  production  will  be  found  strangely  similar. 
Consider  for  instance  the  verse  of  the  ultra  modern 
poet  Paul  Verlaine.     "It  rains  in  my  heart,"  he 
once  sang,  and  from  certain  moods  of  our  own  we 
think    that    we   understand.    That    hint   at    the 
modern  ennui  is  an  instance  of  subtly  suggestive 
sensation,  sensation  of  course  that  is  not  really 
new,  but  newly  comprehended  and  expressed  in 
our   analytical   age.     Verlaine's  old   effects  were 
often  in  imitation  of  the  dainty,  exquisite  style 
and   bitter-sweet    spirit   of  Watteau's    paintings. 
So  harmoniously  do  these  old  effects  blend  with 
the    new    sensations    that    it    becomes    at    once 
apparent  how  nearly  akin  are  the  two  types  of 
impressionistic    performance.     But    there    is    an 
even  better  example  of  their  mingling  than  the 
verse  of  Verlaine.     I  refer  to  the  English  painter- 
poets  who  delighted  in  the  title  pre-Raphaelite. 
In  revulsion  of  feeling  at  the  sacrifice  of  senti- 
ment naturalists  were  making  in  their  pursuit  of 
truth,  quite  contemptuous  of  everything  new  and 
quite  foolishly  fond  of  everything  old,  these  men 
resolved  to  revive  in  Victorian  England  that  spirit 
of  esthetic  exaltation  and  of  exuberant  stained- 
glass  colour  and  emotion'which  had  characterized 
the  earlier  days  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.     In 
the  work  of  Burne-Jones,  Rossetti  and  William 
Morris   the   tingling   nerves   of  shrill   modernity 
clashed  with  the  pristine  simplicity  which  they 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        i6i 


sought,  and  the  blend  of  middle-age  method  with 
the  obviously  modern  motive  produced  an  im- 
pressionistic art  that  is  as  artificial  as  it  is  unique. 
If  the  impressionistic  versifiers  of  to-day  wish 
to  trace  their  descent  from  artistic  forefathers  of 
the  great  romantic  school  in  England  let  them 
name  Burns,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  Such  an 
ancestry  might  indeed  sober  and  uplift  their  con- 
ception of  art  and  to  such  an  ancestry  they  have 
a  reasonable  claim.  To  the  forthright  honesty  of 
Burns,  Wordsworth  added  sometimes  a  sub- 
tlety of  emotion.  This  subtlety  was  the  special 
province,  however,  of  Coleridge,  whose  "Ancient 
Mariner"  is  full  of  inspiration  in  its  choice 
of  adjectives  and  adverbs  to  express  imagined 
states  of  body  and  mind.  As  for  that  strange 
remembrance  of  a  dream,  that  glorious  fragment 
"  Kubla  Khan,"  it  is  the  outpouring  of  pure  sen- 
sation for  what  it  is^  worth,  glamorous  with  colour 
and  scent  and  sound,  signifying  nothing.  Not 
even  in  Swinburne  is  there  a  better  instance  of 
that  luxury  of  literary  impressionism,  sound  for 
sound's  sake.  Tennyson  and  Browning  in  a 
sense  represent  a  consummation  of  English  poetry. 
Tennyson,  responsive  like  Keats  to  classic  and 
Gothic  inspiration,  was  also  receptive  to  modern 
influence  in  the  air  he  breathed.  But  if,  in  a 
few  sensitive  lyrics,  he  accepted  impressionism 
along  with  other  ideas,  Brownii:g  not  only  ac- 
cepted it  but  enlarged  its  scope  with  precious 
innovations.    Tennyson  completed  and  perfected 


r'\ 


m 
k 


162       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  poetic  motives  of  his  predecessors.  Brown- 
ing, vividly  original  and  independent,  chose 
rather  to  break  ground  in  untried  fields.  His 
great  achievement  was  to  incorporate  psychology 
in  poetic  art,  and  this  science  he  employed  for 
analyzing  thoughts  and  moods  or  for  painting, 
through  speeches  from  their  own  mouths,  marvel- 
lous portraits  of  men  and  women.  His  impres- 
sionism, however,  was  not  always  psychological, 
for  such  a  lyric  as  "Meeting  it  Night"  appeals 
directly  to  the  senses.  Picture  painting  in  poems 
is  an  attractive  art.  Do  you  know  the  "Silhou- 
ettes" of  Arthur  Symons.?  They  come  about  as 
close  to  the  aesthetic  arrangements  of  Whistler  as 
it  is  possible  to  come  in  a  different  art.  Here, 
for  instance,  is  a  fresh  little  pastel  done  in  Whist- 
ler's own  colours.  Every  word  counts  like  the 
brushstrokes  of  the  master. 

"The  sea  lies  quieted  beneath 
The  after-sunset  flush, 
That  leaves  upon  the  heaped  gray  clouds 
The  grape's  faint  purple  blush. 

Pale  from  a  little  space  in  Heaven 
Of  purest  ivory, 

A  sickle  moon  and  one  gold  star 
Look  down  upon  the  sea." 

And  here  again  is  a  fine  bit  of  painting.  The 
tone  values  arc  as  subtle  as  in  Whistler,  and  the 
emotional  suggestion  only  a  little  more  obvious. 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        163 

"The  twilight  droops  across  the  day, 
I  watch  her  portrait  on  the  wall 
Palely  recede  into  the  gray 
That  palely  comes  to  cover  all. 

The  sad  spring  twilight,  dull,  forlorn, 
The  menace  of  a  sultry  night. 
Yet  in  her  face  more  fresh  than  mom 
A  sweet  suspension  of  delight." 

This  is  a  vast  improvement  upon  the  pictorial 
quality  of  Rossetti's  verse,  for,  whereas  we  feel 
that  Rossetti's  poems  should  have  been  pictures, 
we  promptly  admit  that  Symons'  "Silhouettes"  are 
pictures,  and  very  clever  ones  at  that. 

Someone  acutely  observed  that  "to  make  fa- 
miliar" things  seem  strange  and  strange  things 
seem  familiar  is  the  unconscious  purpose  of 
modern  poetry.  We  shall  see  how  true  that  is 
now  that  we  come  to  glance  over  various  creations 
of  the  impressionistic  muse,  striving  as  she  always 
does  to  express  those  elusive  yet  oft  recurring 
phenomena  apprehended  within  our  brains  or  in 
the  world  around  us.  Symbolical  impressionism 
is  the  name  best  applied  to  that  verse,  French  in 
origin,  which  deals  with  joys  that  are  only  mas- 
querade, laughtei  that  mocks  the  heart  and  leaves 
it  cold.  Such  art  is  complete  in  the  following 
poem  translated  from  Verlaine  by  Gertrude  Hall. 
It  symbolizes  the  emptiness  of  this  world's  fierce 
delights. 


i64      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


i 


iM:    I 


lii 


"Your  soul  is  as  a  moon-lit  landscape  fair, 
Peopled  with  maskers,  delicate  and  dim, 
That  play  on  lutes,  and  dance,  and  have  an  air 
Of  being  sad,  in  their  fantastic  trim; 

The  while  they  celebrate,  in  minor  strain. 
Triumphant  love  —  effective  enterprise. 
They  have  an  air  knowing  all  is  vain. 
As  through  the  quiet  moonlight  their  songs  rise. 

The  melancholy  moonlight,  sweet  and  lone, 
That  makes  to  dream  the  birds  upon  the  tree 
And,  in  their  polished  basins  of  white  stone. 
The  fountains  tall  to  sob  with  ecstasy." 

W.  B.  Yeats  is  the  leader  of  a  school  of  Irish 
poets  whose  purpose  has  been  to  render  in  ab- 
solutely original  music  the  quintessence  of  the 
ancient  mystical  Celtic  spirit.  There  are  few 
lyrics  in  the  language  so  lovely  as  this,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  sweet  sound  only. 

"I  will  arise  and  go  now 
And  go  to  Innisfrae, 
And  a  lake  island  build  there 
Of  clay  and  wattles  made. 
Nine  bean  rows  shall  I  have  there, 
A  hive  for  the  honey  bee. 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee  loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there 
For  peace  comes  dropping  slow. 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning 
To  where  the  cricket  sings; 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        165 

There  midnight's  a  glimmer, 

And  noon  a  purple  glow, 

And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now. 

For  always  night  and  day 

I  hear  lake  water  lapping 

With  low  sounds  by  the  shore: 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway. 

Or  on  the  pavements  gray, 

I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core." 

Then  there  is  the  psychological  lyric,  the  ex- 
pression of  our  most  complicated  moments.  Have 
you  ever  known  this  feeling  of  Rossetti's?  If  you 
have,  you  must  have  caught  yourself  brooding 
upon  the  Oriental  belief  in  pre-existence. 

"I  have  been  here  before. 
But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell. 
I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door  — 
The  sweet,  keen  smell. 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before. 

How  long  ago  I  may  not  know, 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turned  so  — 

A  veil  did  fall  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore." 

The  will-o'-the-wisp  elusiveness  of  a  mood  was 
chased  by  our  precious  poet  Aldrich  and  captured 
in  the  last  line  — thus: 


.'  m 


I 


I 


i66      THE  ENCHA^^^MENT  OF  ART 

"A  blight  — a  gloom  — I  know  not  what  has  crept  acroM 

my  gladness. 
A  vague,  remote  ancestral  touch  of  sorrow  or  of  sadness, 
A  fear  that  is  not  fear— a  pain,  that  has  not  pain's  insistence— 
A  sense  of  longing,  or  of  loss,  in  some  foregone  existence. 
A  subtle  hurt  that  never  pen  has  writ  nor  tongue  has  spoken. 
Such  hurt  perchance  as  nature  feels  when  a  blossomed  bough 

is  broken. 

With  its  haunting  Celtic  melody  and  its  in- 
spired expression  of  a  temperamental  excitement 
in  a  Celtic  maiden's  heart,  there  is  much  delicate 
art  expended  upon  this  Irish  Peasant  Song  by 
Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

"I  try  to  knead  and  spin  but  my  life  is  low  the  while. 
Oh  I  long  to  be  alone  and  walk  abroad  a  mile. 
Yet  if  I  walk  alone  and  think  of  naught  at  all 
Why  from  me  *hat's  young  should  the  wild  tears  fall? 

The  shower-sodden  earth  —  the  earth-coloured  streams 
They  breathe  on  me  awake  and  moan  to  me  in  dreams. 
And  the  ivy  that  fondles  the  broke  castle  wall 
It  pulls  upon  my  heart  till  the  wild  tears  fall. 


The  cabin  door  looks  down  a  furze-lighted  hill. 
As  far  as  Leighlin  Cross  the  fields  are  green  and  still. 
But  once  I  hear  a  blackbird  in  Leighlin  hedges  call. 
The  foolishness  is  on  me,  and  the  wild  tears  fall!" 

Then  there  is  the  poetry  that  is  pathological, 
if  such  a  thing  is  possible  —  the  poetry  of  the 
nervous  system  and  its  harassing  sensations. 


J    ^ 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        167 

"At  the  barren  heart  of  midnight  — 
Dripping  —  dropping  in  a  rhythm 
Rough,  unequal,  half-melodiout  — 
I  can  hear  a  cistern  leaking. 

Like  the  buzzing  of  an  insect 
Still,  irrational,  persistent, 
I  must  listen,  listen,  listen. 
In  a  passion  of  attention  — 

Till  it  taps  upon  my  heart  strings. 
And  my  very  life  goes  dripping  — 
Dropping,  dripping,  drip-drip-dropping. 
With  the  diip-drop  of  the  cistern." 

Let  us  trust  that  the  pursuit  of  physical  sensa- 
tion can  go  no  farther. 

!  I  have  failed  in  this  essay  if  I  have  not  made  it 
clear  that  impressionism,  which  is  the  essential 
function  of  the  representative  arts,  is  only  one  of 
the  lesser  functions  of  the  supreme  art  of  poety. 
I  have  attempted  to  show  that  whereas  great 
poets  like  Browning  have  been  impressionistic  on 
occasion,  the  craftsmen  of  to-day  have  regarded 
the  making  of  effects  as  an  end  in  itself,  lavishing 
upon  it  a  greater  technical  brilliancy  than  their 
illustrious  predecessors  ever  possessed.  If  such 
dilettantism  could  work  any  harm  to  the  progress 
of  poetry  it  would  be  the  duty  of  the  critic  to 
condemn  it,  but  such  a  thought  cannot  be 
seriously  considered.  Soon  there  will  dawn  an- 
other golden  day  for  poetry,  and  then,  with  all 


'•[ 


*^  i> 


r 


i68       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  dauntless  courage  and  subtle  skill  acquired 
during  the  present  age  at  their  command,  poets 
will  climb  to  heights  perhaps  as  yet  unconquered. 
Meanwhile  much  may  be  s:iid  for  the  worth  of  the 
work  that  is  going  on,  and  something  even  for  its 
spiritual  significance.  Rossetti  felicitously  defined 
the  sonnet  as  a  "moment's  monument,"  but  I 
think  that  this  phrase  may  be  more  accurately 
ascribed  to  all  arts  that  we  can  call  impression- 
istic. Poets  have  learned,  perhaps  from  landscape 
painters,  that  one  must  be  alert  to  catch  the  ever 
changing  smiles  and  frowns  upon  the  face  of  na- 
ture. The  epic  majesties,  the  eternal  verities, 
these  things  have  been  celebrated  in  song  cen- 
turies ago,  in  days  of  deeper  faith  and  farther 
vision.  Enough  for  the  modern  artist  to  carve 
with  curious  skill  a  little  coin  of  verse,  finding 
solace  in  the  thought  that  the  coin  outlasts 
Tiberius. 


STEVENSON     AND     HENLEY 

Kindred  spirits  in  the  art  of  living  —  they 
were  made  for  each  other  —  were  Stevenson  and 
Henley.  I  like  to  think  of  that  first  meeting  in 
the  dingy  Edinburgh  Infirmary  where  Henley  lay 
convalescent;  how  to  the  sick  Titan  helpless  in 
his  maimed  strength  yet  dauntless  of  spirit  and 
receptive  of  mind  the  fragile  Faun  appeared,  so 
irresistible  in  his  charm,  so  sprightly  in  his 
humour,  with  his  rare  and  exquisite  culture  and 
his  almost  fantastic  grace.     What  a  feast  for  tht 


' 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        169 

gods  that  first  talk  must  have  been,  Leslie 
Stephen  thrown  in  for  good  measure  I  Then  and 
there  perhaps  they  discovered  their  kindred 
tastes;  and  of  poetry  and  romance,  music  and 
paintings,  memories  of  land  and  sea,  nonsense, 
excitement  and  spiritual  conflict  who  could  speak 
with  a  heartier  relish  and  a  more  appreciative 
gusto  that,  these  two  charming  fellows?  The  joy 
of  living  was  the  sustaining  inspiration  of  both 
men.  Life  was  to  them  a  "dream  worth  dream- 
ing"—  a  vividly  romantic  adventure  through  an 
enchanted  forest  in  which  griefs  and  terrors  were 
dragons  to  be  dealt  with  in  the  dark.  To  for- 
tunate mortals  blessed  with  health  and  prosperous 
abundance,  it  is  easy  enough  to  be  happy.  But 
how  much  deeper  a  joy  it  is  to  love  life  in  spite 
of  adversity  and  illness,  to  make  artistic  capital 
out  of  tragic  and  even  sordid  experience,  while 
ghostly  Death  lurks  in  the  wings,  a  worthy 
enemy  in  ambuscade.  So  life  was  a  prize  to  be 
gallantly  hazarded.  It  was  good  to  be  merry  in 
youth,  to  be  young  in  the  spring,  vagabonds  and 
knights-errant  on  the  highways  and  byways.  It 
was  "  better  far  to  be  a  fool  than  to  be  dead  — 
but  a  thousand  times  better  dead  than  a  coward." 
For  death  was  the  tremendous  experience. 

But  the  likeness  between  Stevenson  and  Henley 
does  not  cease  with  their  congenial  tastes  and 
their  kindred  philosophy.  As  artists  their  aims 
and  methods  were  often  identical  and  their  songs 
generally    in    the    same     key.    In     Stevenson's 


MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No   2) 


1.0 


1.1 


136 

14.0 


m 

2.2 
2.0 

1.8 


^     /APPLIED  IIVMGE 


a^  'eSJ    East    Mom    Street 

^g  Rochester.    New    York         14609        uSA 

SB  (716)   *82  -  0300  -  Phon- 

S  f"6)   288  -  S989  -  Fqk 


Ml- 

Hi' 

'I  ii 


170       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

spirited  lyric  "Tropic  Rain"  we  recall  at  once 
Henley's  imaginative  realism  and  his  resonant 
diction. 

"As  the  single  pang  of  the  blow  —  when  the  metal  is  mingled 

well 
Rings  and  lives  and  resounds  in  all  the  bounds  of  the  bell, 
So  the  thunder  above  spake  with  a  single  tongue, 
So  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains  —  the  sound  of  it  rumbled 

and  clung. 
Sudden  the  thunder  was  drowned  —  quenched  was  the 

levin  light. 
And  the  angel  spirit  of  rain  laughed  out  loud  in  the  night, 
Loud  as  the  maddened  river  raves  in  the  cloven  glen. 
Angel  of  rain!    How  you  laughed  and  leaped  on  the  roofs 

of  men!" 

Surely  Henley  would  have  been  equally  respon- 
sive to  the  thrill  of  that  storm  and  would  have 
expressed  it  in  the  same  way.  The  reverse  is 
true.  Stevenson's  spirit  animated,  and  his  art 
helped  to  perfect,  many  of  Henley's  best  lyrics. 
The  songs  of  both  men  deserve  to  endure  as  long 
as  the  language  and  yet  they  do  not  represent 
their  highest  achievements.  Stevenson,  I  think, 
will  live  longest  as  the  master  of  a  well  nigh 
perfect  prose  —  in  his  gripping  short  stories,  his 
ever-delicious  "Treasure  Island"  and,  best  of  all, 
his  genial  and  exquisite  essays.  As  for  Henley  — 
the  "London  Voluntaries"  with  their  wholly  un- 
precedented power  of  subject  and  style,  seem  to 
me  to  hold  out  his  best  chance  of  immortality. 

His   descriptions   of  London   days   and   nights 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        171 

under  the  varying  aspects  of  the  hours  and 
seasons  are  in  each  case  suffused  with  the  poet's 
moods.  In  one  picture  "Saint  Margaret's  bells 
sing  in  the  storied  air,"  "filling  the  sobered 
streets  with  Sabbath  peace."  In  another,  London 
is  "languid  with  midsummer  sorcery."  The 
homes  are  shut,  and  by  night  the  streets  are 
"still  and  spectral  avenues  of  sleep."  Then 
again  it  is  October  at  the  "golden  end  of  after- 
noon." Trafalgar  Square  "shimmers  in  mellow 
haze."  "Even  the  blind  man  pottering  on  the 
curb  among  his  trinkets  and  his  ostrich  feathers 
shares  in  the  universal  alms  of  light."  The 
remaining  pictures  depict  London  cowering  under 
"the  wind-fiend  out  of  the  poisonous  east"  and 
in  the  "delirious  ecstasy  of  spring."  The  poetry 
of  cities  was  at  last  discovered  and  for  all  time 
incorporated  into  art. 

In  the  most  dissimilar  mediums  of  expression 
—  the  arts  of  Stevenson  and  Henley  are  remark- 
ably akin.  Both  were  stylists,  unfailing  in  their 
grasp  of  the  inevitable  adjective,  the  predestined 
phrase,  the  delicately  modulated  sound  and  artic- 
ulated sense.  Both  v/ere  radical  naturalists,  for 
Stevenson's  mediaeval  cities  and  South  Sea  islands 
were  as  vividly  realized  as  Henley's  contemporary 
London.  The  difference  was  that  Henley  flashed 
upon  our  minds  the  romantic  essence  of  the  sights 
we  see  by  day,  whereas  Stevenson  gave  form  to 
the  realistic  substance  of  the  dreams  we  see  by 
night.     Finally  both  were  impressionists — hand- 


172       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


^ 


ill;  ! ;. 


I 


■11  :■ 


ling  their  words  as  a  painter  handles  pigments, 
always  condensing  thoughts  and  selecting  images 
for  the  sake  of  creating  one  definite  impression. 

I  have  said  that  the  joy  of  living  was  the 
motive  force  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  both 
men.  This  is  hardly  true  of  the  Henley  of  his 
later  years.  No  poet  was  ever  quite  so  unre- 
servedly personal  in  his  record  of  impressions 
gleaned  from  actual  experience.  During  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  the  storm  and  stress  of  his 
existence  filled  him  with  a  grim  joy  —  the  very 
joy  of  fighting  men  in  the  reek  and  sweat  of 
battle.  Stevenson  may  have  inspired  him  with 
this  exalted  vitality  of  thought  and  speech  —  for 
who  does  not  know  how  throughout  that  race  of 
his  with  death  through  the  shadow  of  the  valley 
—  his  spirits  rose  until  he  laughed  and  sang  in 
the  very  face  of  his  relentless  pursuer.  But 
Stevenson  laughed  and  sang  to  the  end  because 
he  was  actually  happy,  happy  not  alone  for  the 
thrill  of  the  gallop  and  the  danger  of  the  race, 
but  for  the  welcoming  faces  along  the  way,  the 
beckoning  hills,  the  smell  of  the  sea,  the  "wide  and 
starry  sky."  Life  was  to  him  so  wonderful  and 
beautiful  and  brief  that  he  took  no  time  to  notice 
that  it  can  also  be  plain  and  dull.  He  enjoyed 
his  life  for  its  own  sake  —  rejoicing  as  Chesterton 
said  of  Scott  in  "  the  toughness  of  wood  —  the 
everlasting  soapiness  of  soap."  And  the  arts  he 
so  loved  and  so  enriched  were  kept  in  their  proper 
place  —  as  the  reflected  images  of  nature. 


r       •  r 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        173 

Not  so  with  Henley,  for  the  conviction  grows 
upon  us  as  we  read  his  verse  that  it  is  less  for  its 
own  sake  he  loved  life  than  because  it  afforded 
him  such  splendid  material  for  artistic  expression 
and  depiction.  The  unique  and  once  read  never 
to  be  forgotten  memories  of  his  confinement  "In 
Hospital"  are  instances  of  this  employment  of 
personal  experience  in  the  cause  of  art.  The 
depression  of  arrival  —  the  sickening  excitement 
of  waiting  for  the  operation,  the  storming  of  the 
"thick  sweet  mystery  of  chloroform,"  the  tortured 
dreamery  of  the  long,  unnatural  days  and  nights, 
the  familiar  faces  of  nurses  and  doctors,  the 
coming  of  spring  through  the  open  windows  and 
finally  the  release  into  the  dazzling  healthy  world 
—  it  is  all  very  vivid  and  very  true.  But  much 
of  it  is  disagreeable  and  some  of  it  is  not  poetry. 
Now  Stevenson  had  many  long  illnesses  —  about 
which  we  are  told  nothing.  He  refused  to  see  the 
medicine  bottles,  or  record  the  pain.  He  closed 
his  eyes  and  dreamed  dreams  and  recalled  happier 
days.  Henley,  the  journalist-poet  was  intent  al- 
ways upon  "copy" — intent  always  upon  converting 
observation  and  experience  into  art  for  art's  sake. 

It  is  often  written  that  Stevenson  incarnated 
both  in  life  and  literature  the  spirit  of  youth. 
Such  a  thought  is  more  picturesque  than  true. 
Rather  was  he  one  of  those  rare  beings  who  can 
carry  the  dreams  and  thoughts  of  childhood  and 
boyhood  undimmed  into  the  more  encompassing 
concerns  of  maturity.    If  it   is  true  that  there 


k 

1      "I  i! 


<    n 

ill. 


174      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

never  was  a  more  childish  child  and  a  more 
boyish  boy  than  Stevenson,  it  is  equally  true  that 
there  never  was  a  more  manly  man.  And  all  the 
while  (v/e  feel  it  would  have  been  the  same  had 
he  been  spared  to  old  age),  all  the  while  he 
carried  along  with  him  the  unforgotten  child  and 
boy.  Just  here  we  may  observe  how  the  im- 
pressionistic art  of  remembering  and  defining 
states  of  mind  and  physical  sensations,  the  art 
he  shared  with  his  friend  Henley,  was  directed  by 
him  in  a  very  different  direction  from  "In  Hospi- 
tal," and  "London  Voluntaries."  In  the  "Child's 
Garden  of  Verses"  he  embarked  upon  a  new, 
uncharted  channel  of  art  —  the  oft-unfathomed 
sea  of  the  child's  mental  and  emotional  experience. 

"  How  do  you  like  to  go  up  in  a  swing 
Up  in  the  air  so  blue  ? 
Oh  I  do  think  it  the  pleasantest  thing 
Ever  a  child  can  do. 


'ii 


Up  in  the  air  and  over  the  wall 

Till  I  can  see  so  wide, 
Rivers  and  trees  and  cattle  and  all 

Over  the  country  side. 


Till  I  look  down  on  the  garden  green, 
Down  on  the  roofs  so  brown. 

Up  in  the  air  I  go  flying  again, 
Up  in  the  air  and  down." 


And  the  ever  delectable, 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        175 

"In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 
And  dress  by  yellow  candle  light, 
In  summer  quite  the  other  way 
I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree 
And  hear  the  grown-up  people's  feet 
Still  going  past  me  on  the  street. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play. 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day?" 

It  thrills  me  yet  to  remember  how  I  loved  a 
swing  and  how  I  resented  going  to  bed  by  day! 
And  Stevenson  has  made  me  not  alone  recall  but 
actually  renew  the  rapture  and  the  resentment. 
To  read  the  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses"  is  to  live 
one's  infancy  over  again  with  the  additional  en- 
chantment of  distance  and  the  subconscious 
realization  of  its  beauty. 

Then  with  "Treasure  Island"  we  grow  again 
into  day-dreaming,  sea-faring  boyhood  and  asso- 
ciate once  more  with  pirates  and  other  desperate 
characters  and  enjoy  more  than  ever  we  did  the 
blood-curdling  chorus.  ^ 

"Sixteen  men  on  a  dead  man's  chest, 
Yo-ho-ho  and  a  bottle  of  rum. 
Drink  and  the  devil  had  done  for  the  rest, 
Yo-ho-ho  and  a  botde  of  rum." 


i 


,;t  ; 


t     1 


Sr"      ' 


Ml 


^j 


•i!' 


176      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

At  last  we  enter  again  into  our  young  manhood 
and  the  earth  is  as  full  of  fascination  and  promise 
as  the  earth  has  a  way  of  seeming  when  we  are 
twenty-one.  We  go  on  vagabond  journeys  smil- 
ing we  scarce  know  why.  We  sleep  under  the 
stars  in  rapt  wonder  and  listen  to  rare  talk  of  art 
and  love.  And  it  is  all  so  ample  and  spontaneous 
and  eloquent  an  existence  that  we  almost  forget 
it  is  the  matchless  prose  of  Stevenson's  essays 
that  is  lifting  us  out  of  our  dreary,  undeveloped 
selves,  to  make  us  see  and  feel  as  never  before  — 
the  charms  of  earth. 

But  the  love  of  Stevenson  is  like  the  love  of 
woman.     It    is    difficult    in    such    extremities    of 
affection  to  be  calm  and  judicial.     When  however 
we  have  hardened  our  hearts  to  the  charm  of 
him,  and  adjusted  our  critical  spectacles,  charm 
remains  the  chief  asset  both  of  the  man  and  the 
artist.     Great  depths  he  did  not  fathom,  because 
life  in  its  entirety  he  would  not  face.     If  I  con- 
sider his  essays  and  lyrics  the  best  part  of  his 
achievement  it  is  because  in  these  he  revealed  at 
least  a  little  of  his  inner  self,  the  sacred  inner  life 
which,  for  all  his  egoism,  he  would  not  distribute 
broadcast.    The    stories,   vivid    as   they   are    by 
reason  of  the  romancer's  genius,  are  the  reflex  of 
his  dreamy,  whimsical  half-hours,  rather  than  of  his 
serious  convictions.     Stevenson's  best  tales  of  ad- 
venture were  either  written  like  "Treasure  Island" 
out  of  a  smiling,   make-believing  mood  to  give 
pleasure  to  kindred  spirits  young  and  old,  or  else 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        i77 

like  "Dr.  Jckyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  they  proceeded 
directly    from    the    subconscious    imagination   of 
dreams.     Sometimes  the  effects  he  created  were 
grotesque   and   terrible,   like   the   bogey   dreams 
which  gave  them  shape;    then  again  they  were 
made  for  laughter,  or  for  that  borderland  of  the 
mind  between  sleeping  and  waking.     But  whether 
he  called  back  his  unforgotten  games  and  thoughts 
of  childhood,  or  the   phantoms  of  his  sleep,  as 
once  upon  a  time  he  felt   so  we   are  made  to 
feel,   and  for  such  art,  whether   reahitic   or  ro- 
mantic in  substance,  impressionism  is  the  proper 

name. 

We  have  noted  the  resemblances  between  Ste- 
venson and  Henley,  their  mutual  responsiveness  to 
congenial    influences    and    their    closely    related 
synthesis  of  style.     The  chief  difference  was  in 
how   they   chose   to   express   fundamentally   the 
same  thoughts  and  emotions.    To  both  men  life 
was  no  less  romantic  than  real,  but  Stevenson  was 
for  emphasizing  the  reality  of  the  romance  while 
Henley  was   always   laying   stress   upon   the   ro- 
mance of  the   realities.     Stevenson's  impression- 
ism dealt  by  preference  with  distant  memories  and 
imaginative     dreams;      Henley's     with     familiar 
moods   and   unusual   though   oft-recurring  sensa- 
tions.   There  are  lyrics  of  Henley's  which  startle 
us  into  realization  that  no  flying  moment  is  too 
brief  for  modern  art  to  celebrate.    I  recall  one 
"Echo"  in  which  the  poet,  standing  by  an  open 
window  on  a  fresh  spring  morning  —  sniffs  the 


I  I 


,!f 


178      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

salt  wind  from  the  sea,  and  remarks  out  of  the 
joy  of  his  mood  that  "the  sun  seems  glad  to 
shine."  At  the  same  instant  "an  old  cracked 
fiddle"  sets  up  an  infernal  "grunting"  and 
"buzzing"  on  the  pavement  below.  And  the  air 
it  is  vulgarizing  is  one,  we  are  told,  made  sweet 
by  association.  We  are  made  to  feel  as  we  have 
all  felt  in  forgotten  moments  of  light-hearted 
leisure  —  the  strange  sensation  of  jangled  love 
and  laughter,  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous. 
There  are  other  lyrics  in  which  moods  are  so  well 
remembered  and  the  simple  incidents  associated 
therewith  so  hauntingly  familiar,  that  the  effect 
upon  our  minds  is  impressive  out  of  all  proportion 
to  the  seeming  slightness  of  the  verse.  Here  is  a 
memory  of  a  summer  night: 

"The  skies  are  strown  with  stars, 
The  streets  are  fresh  with  dew. 
A  thin  moon  drifts  to  westward  — 
The  night  is  hushed  and  cheerful  — 
My  thought  is  quick  with  you. 

Near  windows  gleam  and  laugh. 
And  far  away  a  train 
Clanks  glowing  through  the  stillness. 
A  great  content's  in  all  things  — 
And  life  is  not  in  vain." 

What  a  happy  choice  of  adjectives  and  verbs! 
What  a  subtle  power  of  suggesting  more  than  is 
expressed!  What  a  privilege  to  have  our  eva- 
nescent moods  prolonged  —  to  remember  how  you 


v     ' 


T^ 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        179 

felt  yesterday  among  the  evening  shadows  and  I 
to-night  under  the  stars  1 

THE  LYRICS  OF  ROBERT  BRIDGES 

It    is    cause    for    astonishment    that    Robert 
Bridges  should  be  Poet  Laureate  in  an  age  marked 
by  the  hum  of  machines  and  the  shrill  contending 
voices  of  the  crowd;    an  age  when  mighty  prob- 
lems are  seething  and  mightier  meanings  evolving 
for  us  all  in  the  transforming  heat.     For  Robert 
Bridges  is  a  cool,  mellow  scholar,  who  lives  re- 
flective days  in  a  cool  mellow  university  atmos- 
spherc  where  time  is  apt  to  linger  by  the  way; 
who  has  written  poems  that  remind  us  of  old,  old 
songs  in  the  "Golden  Treasury,"  who  at  first  sight 
seems   to   belong   to   any   age   except   our   own. 
Because  his  poems  are  musical  with  a  music  we 
already   know,   most   of  his   readers   confidently 
assert  that    he   is   unoriginal   and   imitative,  and 
because    he    tells    in    simple    words    of    simple 
thoughts  and  feelings,  avoiding  the  problems  and 
the   passions  of  life,   that   he   is   a   minor   poet, 
uninspired  and  uninspiring.     Certainly  it  is  cause 
for  astonishment  that  he  is  Poet  Laureate  for  an 
age  in  which  he  must  always  seem,  rather  like  an 
amiable,    distinguished,    contemporary    of    one's 
grandfather. 

His  elevation  to  the  eminence  of  a  public  func- 
tionary must  be  a  matter  for  astonishment  to  Mr. 
Bridges  himself.  He  is  the  poet  for  the  few  be- 
cause he  has  never  written  to  please  the  many, 


,!♦ ' 


i  u  '! 


■  n 


180      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
nor  has  he  made  concessions  to  their  understand- 
ing.    Both  at  his  worst  and  at  his  best  his  poems 
are  personal,  with  a  certain  curiously  impersonal 
ardour  for  beauty  that  is  peculiarly  his  own.    Both 
at  his  worst  and  at  his  best  his  poems  give  the 
impression  of  an   artist   who  is  very  much  en- 
grossed with  his  art,  quite  obliviously  thinking 
out  loud,  humming,  reciting,  practicing  to  himself 
and    for    himself.    The    bad    poems    are    experi- 
mental thoughts  and  tunes,  obviously  laboured  and 
unsuccessful,  too  private  in  their  thwarted  hopes 
to  be   subjected   to   public   scrutiny.    The  good 
poems,   on   the   contrary,   no   longer   reveal   the 
labours   of  the   mind,  only  its  satisfaction  with 
its    own    art's    concealment.    The    experimental 
thoughts  and  tunes  have  shaped  and  sung  them- 
selves from  inward  to  outward  perfection.    That 
they    seem,    in    spite   of   their   abstract    beauty, 
personal,   and   in   spite   of  their   subtle   artistry, 
simple,  that  is  the  peculiar  quality  of  Bridges' 
genius.     For  I  so  far  disagree  with  the  opinion 
that  he  is  without  inspiration,  that  I  would  say 
that  inspiration  is  the  one  word  to  explain  the 
happy  accident  of  his  rare  expression.     His  range 
has  been  extremely  narrow,  his  conception  of  his 
own  powers  singularly  modest.     He  has   always 
written  only  the  sort  of  poetry  he  himself  cares 
most  to  read,  and  loving  the  old  poems  best  his 
mind   has   reverted   by   preference   to   the   verse 
forme  of  the   earlier   centuries  of  English   song. 
But  this  narrow  range  and  old-time  style  do  not 


\     ' 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        i8i 

prove  him  uninspired  and  unoriginal,  for  in  spite 
of  his  self-imposed  limitations  and  his  apparent 
imitations,  he  is  the  most  inspired  and  original 
poet  now  living,  the  one  poet  who  can  write  an 
old  song  in  a  new  way,  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
us  wonder  why  we  think  that  the  simplest  truth 
is  ever  old,  why  we  doubt  that  the  simplest 
beauty  is  forever  new. 

Simplicity  is  really  the  charm  of  Robert 
Bridges'  poetry  and  all  the  subtlety  and  skill 
that  have  gone  to  its  making  have  not  robbed  it 
of  this  quality,  because  it  is  the  very  purpose  of 
his  art  and  the  very  essence  of  his  purpose. 
Occasionally  he  is  bookish.  His  preoccupation 
with  classical  studies  spoils  his  moods.  Archa- 
isms and  pedantic  allusions  shadow  the  trans- 
parency of  his  thoughts.  But  in  the  shorter 
poems,  which  alone  will  survive  him,  his  words 
are  the  words  of  common  speech  and  his  thoughts 
our  daily  thoughts.  What  distinguishes  him  from 
other  poets  of  the  simpler  feelings  is  his  rare 
perception  of  the  romance  of  familiarity,  the 
subtlety  of  what  we  had  always  supposed  was 
obvious,  the  novelty  of  what  we  had  always 
thought  old-fashioned.  This  profound  truth  he 
expresses  through  an  impressionistic  method,  in 
which  delicately  intricate  metres  are  made  to 
seem  inevitable  and  spontaneous.  It  is  because 
this  method  is  so  new  that  Bridges  belongs  to  the 
few  instead  of  to  the  many.  But  it  is  for  the 
many  that  he  really  writes,  the  many  for  whom 


iii 


1,    1:j 
i       I 


/ 


1  lit 
HI,' 


182  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
joys  may  pass  unperceived  but  not  in  vain.  He 
is  the  poet  of  contentment,  of  the  quiet  hours 
when  love  repays  -  the  poet  of  joy.  After  all 
his  art  is  not  song  for  song's  sake,  but  for  the  joy 
that  makes  the  heart  to  sing. 

He   is    a   lover   of  nature— not    as   romantic 
background,  nor  as  subject  matter  for  ethical  or 
metaphysical  speculations,  but  simply  because  it 
is  good  to  be  out  of  doors.    One  has  spent  happy 
hours  in  the  woods  and  on  the  river.     Let  us  not 
forget    them.    One    thinks    of   him    on    summer 
afternoons  when  the  sun  is  low  and  minster  bells 
pervade  the  stillness,  or  in  the  twilight  when  a 
brightening    moon    pervades    the    dark.     When 
winter  shuts  the  door  the  scholar  loves  his  own 
fireside. 

"Then  oft  I  turn  the  page 

In  which  our  country's  name, 
Spoiling  the  Greek  of  fame, 

Shall  sound  in  every  age 
Or  some  Terentian  play 

Renew,  whose  excellent 
Adjusted  folds  betray 

How  once  Menander  went." 

The  Spring  however  stirs  him  from  his  studies, 
calming  his  spirit  while  quickening  his  pulses. 

"Riding  a-down  the  country  lanes 
One  day  in  Spring, 
Heavy  at  heart  with  all  the  pains 
Of  man's  imagining. 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        183 

The  mist  was  not  yet  melted  quite 

Into  the  sky. 
The  small  round  sun  was  dazzling  white 

The  merry  larks  sang  high. 

The  stillness  of  the  lenten  air 

Called  into  sound 
The  motions  of  all  life  that  were 

In  field  or  farm  around. 

Riding  a-down  the  country  lanes, 

The  larks  sang  high. 
O  heart!    For  all  thy  griefs  and  pains 

Thou  shalt  be  loath  to  die." 

The  perfume  of  flowers  and  their  delicacies  of 
form  and  tint  re-awaken  in  him  the  desire  for 
expression  —  the  desire  to  evoke  in  words^some- 
thing  of  this  flowerlike  loveliness  —  even  in  the 
sound  of  flowered  names  woven  in  garlands  of 
verse. 

"Thick  on  the  woodland  floor 
Gay  company  shall  be. 
Primrose  and  hyacinth 

And  frail  anemone. 


,^ 


Perennial  strawberry  bloom 

Woodsorrel's  pencilled  veil, 
Dishevell'd  willow  weed 

And  orchis  purple  and  pale." 

Music  in  its  perfect  union  of  spirit  and  sense, 
of  form  and  feeling,  is  his  ideal  of  expression,  the 


I 


■  it  ' 


184  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
art  his  own  verse  most  nearly  approaches,  if 
indeed  it  is  not  even  more  truly  like  that  re-ad- 
justment of  emotion  after  the  song  is  still.  To 
Music  he  gives  the  credit  that  "the  rapture  of 
woodland  spring  is  stayed  in  its  flying."  It  is 
the  fugitive  in  life  that  charms  him,  not  the  great 
deeds  nor  yet  the  passionate  thrills,  but  the  little 
secret  joys  and  fears,  vague  desires  and  fond 
regrets,  and  the  sharp  though  unembittered  sense 
of  beauty  passing  —  passing. 

"I  have  loved  airs  that  die 

Before  their  charm  is  writ 
Along  a  liquid  sky 

Trembling  to  welcome  it, 
Notes  that  with  pulse  of  fire 

Proclaim  the  heart's  desire 
Then  die  and  are  no  where 

My  song  be  like  an  air." 

Thus,  even  as  in  music's  spell.  Bridges  distills 
the  essence  of  unbodied  emotions. 

But  if  nature  means  anything  — if  music  has 
anything  to  say  —  it  is  love.  Bridges  is  the  poet, 
not  of  love's  feverish  unrest,  its  hunger  and 
thirst,  its  torment  and  bitterness,  nor  yet  of  its 
triumphant  outcries,  but  of  its  deepest,  stillest 
ecstasies,  its  continuance  of  restful  joy,  when  as 
Arthur  Symons  described  it  "rapture  is  no  longer 
astonished  at  itself."  Of  the  love  lyrics  particu- 
larly it  is  true  that  they  are  happy  thoughts 
overheard,    happy,    uneventful    moments    made 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        185 

eternal.  What  could  be  more  childlike  in  its 
holiday  joyousness,  its  buoyant,  unthinking,  una- 
bashed happy-heartedness  than  this  little  song: 

"When  June  is  come  then  all  the  day 

I'll  sit  with  my  love  in  the  scented  hay, 
And  watch  the  sunshot  palaces  high 

That  the  white  clouds  build  in  the  breezy  sky. 

She  singeth  and  I  do  make  her  a  song 

And  read  sweet  poems  the  whole  day  long, 
Unseen  as  we  lie  in  our  haybuilt  home; 

0  life  is  delight  —  when  June  is  come." 

It  seems  too  easy!    And  yet  it  is  so  perfect! 

Such  is  the  all-inclusiveness  of  love  that  every 
joyous  sight  and  sound  proclaims  the  influence  of 
his  beloved.  Nature  must  surely  share  his  love 
of  her.  A  summer  cloud  confers  with  the  ocean 
how  it  might  woo  her  attention. 

"  But  were  I  thou,  O  ocean, 

I  would  not  chafe  and  fret. 
As  thou,  because  a  limit 

To  thy  desires  is  set. 

1  would  command  strange  creatures 

Of  bright  hue  and  quick  fin 
To  stir  the  water  near  her 

And  tempt  her  bare  arm  in. 

I'd  teach  her  spend  the  summer 

With  me,  and  I  can  tell 
That  were  I  thou,  O  ocean. 

My  love  should  love  me  well." 


I   ; 


5  ■ 

4  I        I 


/ 


f 


1/ 


i86       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Again  and  again  we  are  reminded  of  the  poet's 
tastes,  how  much  he  cares  for  Shakespeare's 
songs  and  Sidney's  sonnets  and  Milton's  shorter 
poems  and  the  lyrics  of  Carew  and  Campion  and 
Lovelace  and  Marvel  and  Herrick.  He  sets  out 
deliberately  to  do  a  tributary  thing  and  under  his 
hand  it  becomes  something  delightfully  unex- 
pected. It  is  his  genius  to  be  original  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"I  love  my  lady's  eyes 

Above  the  beauties  rare 
She  most  is  wont  to  prize, 
Above  her  sunny  hair. 
And  all  that  face  to  face 
Her  glass  repeats  of  grace. 

For  they  are  still  the  same 

To  her  and  all  that  see, 
But  oh  her  eyes  will  flame 

When  they  do  look  on  me. 
And  so  above  the  rest 

I  love  her  eyes  the  best," 

^hy— I   v/onder— is  that  so  old   and  yet   so 

new  ? 

But  this  playful,  trifling  humour  of  love's  idler 
hours  which  recurs  constantly  in  his  pages,  is 
tinged  with  a  genuine,  almost  solemn  reverence 
for  the  wonder  of  love's  mystic  joy.  Words  can 
only  suggest  it.  The  best  must  remain  unspoken. 
The  reserve  of  Bridges  is  infinitely  more  emotional 
than  the  excessive  outpourings  of  the  less  reverent 


I    '' 


IMPRESSIONISM  IN  POETRY        187 

poets.  In  perhaps  his  best  known  lyric  he  has 
very  beautifully  spoken  the  inner  spirit  of  his 
silences: 

"Love  from  whom  the  world  begun 

Hath  the  secret  of  the  sun. 
Love  can  tell,  and  love  alone, 

Whence  the  million  stars  were  strewn. 
Why  each  atom  knows  its  own; 

How  in  spite  of  woe  and  death, 
Gay  is  life  and  sweet  is  breath. 

This  he  taught  us,  this  we  knew 

Happy  in  his  science  true, 
Hand  in  hand  as  we  stood 

'Neath  the  shadows  of  the  wood. 
Heart  to  heart  as  we  lay 

In  the  dawning  of  the  day." 

Those  critics  who  claim  that  Bridges  is  cold 
and  passionless  have  completely  missed  the  mind 
no  less  than  the  heart  of  the  man.  He  is  above 
all  else  the  consecrated  poet  of  joy  —  joy  so  sure 
of  itself  that  it  does  not  need  the  forced  gaieties 
of  carnival  seasons,  when  we  "escape  from  life 
to  put  on  masks  and  dance  a  measure  or  two 
with  strangers,"  nor  the  dusk  of  dreams  when 
out  of  mystery  we  create  mystic  moods.  His  joy 
is  for  any  day  —  anjrwhere.  It  is  not  because 
he  is  a  very  charming  artist  that  Bridges  is  a 
great  poet.  His  art  is  marred  by  a  tew  pedantic 
mannerisms  acquired  in  an  environment  harmful 
to  spontaneous  expression.    His  greatness  is  his 


I 


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Mr   ^ 


i88       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

humanity.  He  does  not,  in  proclaiming  the  joy 
of  living,  deny  its  sorrow,  but  he  does  prefer  to 
evade  lament  —  offering  for  dejection  solace  of 
hope  and  comfortable  memory,  finding  a  kinship 
between  pleasure  and  pain. 

"O  soul  be  patient  —  thou  shalt  find 

A  little  matter  mend  all  this. 

Some  strain  of  music  to  thy  mind 

Some  praise  for  skill  not  spent  amiss. 

Again  shall  pleasure  overflow 

Thy  cup  with  sweetness.    Thou  shalt  taste 
Nothing  but  sweetness  and  shalt  grow 

Half  sad  for  sweetness  run  to  waste." 

It  is  ironical  indeed  that  it  should  be  the  fate 
of  this  shy  poet,  who  shunned  publicity  and  who 
fears  modernity,  to  be  made  Poet  Laureate,  and 
whose  heart  beats  with  the  common  heart  to  be 
regarded  as  aloof  and  austere  and  coldly  intel- 
lectual. Yet  so  it  is  and  the  lyrics  of  Robert 
Bridges  shall  never  belong  to  the  many  who  miss 
their  meaning  but  to  the  few  who  appreciate 
their  art  of  exquisite  singing,  and  give  thanks  for 
their  philosophy  of  quiet  joy. 


\    ' 


t 


ft 


\n 


/  braider  the  world  upon  a  loom, 
J  braider  with  dreams  my  tapestry. 
Here  in  a  little  lonely  room 
I  am  master  of  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  planets  came  to  me. 


And  the  only  world  is  the 

world  of  my  dreams. 
And  my  weaving  the  only 

happiness. 
For  the  world  is  only 

what  it  seems. 
And  who  knows  but  that 

God,  beyond  our  guess. 
Sits  weaving  worlds  out  of 

loneliness. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS— "the  LOOM  OF  DREAMS' 


■ » 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION 

WHICH  is  the  more  essential  purpose 
of    painting  —  to    represent    or    to 
decorate?    That  is  a  question  each 
man  of  us  must  decide  for  himself, 
to   his  own   satisfaction   at   least.     Some   people 
assume  that  pictures  should  imitate  objects  ac- 
cording to  certain  preconceived  notions  as  to  what 
constitutes    life-likeness.     Anything    that    is    un- 
natural   seems    to    them    unsuccessful    since,    in 
their  philosophy,  the  imitation  of  nature  is  the 
only    conceivable   justification    for    pictorial    art. 
Should  they  see  a  picture  where  the  artist  has 
taken  liberties  with  exact  truth  for  the  sake  of 
producing  a  decorative  effect,  they  will  exclaim 
all  in  one  breath —"  I-never-saw-a-sky-like-that,- 
did-you-ever-see-a-blue-tree?"     Should     you     at- 
tempt to  give  them  a  conception  of  a  pictorial 
purpose  other  than  the  imitative  they  will  regard 
you  with  rather  resentful  suspicion.     They  may 
be  insensible  to  some  phases  of  beauty  but  they 
yield  to  no  one  in  regard  to  any  kind  of  truth. 
They   are   simply   utterly   lacking   in   decorative 
imagination.     Then  there  are  others  who  cannot 
see  anything  pictorial  about   the  life  that  they 
most    ardently    enjoy.    They    will    not    tolerate 


*iM 


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192       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

representation.  "Why  trouble  with  nature  at 
second  hand"  they  say  —  "when  we  can  possess 
the  real  thing  every  day?  Nature  is  good  enough 
for  us,  thank  you.  As  for  Art,  let  it  create  new 
forms  of  beauty  in  color  and  design;  melodic  or 
harmonious  arrangements  that  will  lift  us  out  of 
ourselves,  creating  in  us  impersonal  emotions." 
Now  all  observant  and  intelligent  men  tend  more 
or  less  to  one  or  the  other  of  these  extreme  points 
of  view  —  even  you  and  I,  my  reader. 

Of  course  extremes  are  always  deplorable. 
Painting  should,  according  to  the  painter's  tem- 
perament in  the  matter  of  comparative  emphasis, 
be  both  representative  and  decorative,  although 
it  can  seldom  hope  to  balance  these  separate 
functions  as  they  were  once  so  perfectly  balanced 
in  "The  Surrender  of  Breda"  by  Velasquez. 
Furthermore,  the  two  functions  are  interdepend- 
ent. No  pictorial  representation  can  hope  to 
attain  greatness  if  it  disregards  such  decorative 
principles  a  unity  of  design  and  harmony  of 
colour.  On  the  other  hand  no  pictorial  decoration 
can  safely  maintain  its  legitimacy  among  the 
representative  arts  if  it  represents  nothing  and  is 
expressed  merely  by  abstract  colour  and  line.  In 
so  doing  it  passes  into  the  category  of  mere  orna- 
ment. Representative  and  decorative  painting 
should  really  be  regarded  as  one  and  the  same  art, 
engaged  in  special  missions  and  governed  by 
special  laws.  The  difference  is  merely  this,  that 
representative    painting,    however    decorative    it 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION    193 

may  be,  appeals,  in  its  character  of  commentary 
upon  life,  through  the  agency  of  the  sense  of  sight 
to  the  mind  and  its  associations,  and  only  thus, 
through  the  mind,  to  the  emotions.  Painting 
on  the  other  hand  that  is  purely  decorative  acts 
directly  upon  the  emotions  through  the  inde- 
pendent agency  of  the  aesthetic  sense. 

It  is  nevertheless  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
representative  pictures  cannot  decorate  nor  deco- 
rative pictures  represent,  simply  because  one  type 
cultivates  the  concrete  and  the  other  the  abstract. 
Japanese  art  is  an  illustration  of  the  desirable 
union  of  these  separate  art  motives.     Few  are  the 
ornaments  in  wood,  ivory,  lacquer  or  bronze  that 
are  not  carved  or  etched  with  images  of  birds  and 
flowers,  or  temples  and  landscapes.    And  there  is 
no  Japanese  painting  or  colour  print  that  does  not 
quite  confidently  assert  the  right  of  the  artist  to 
••epresent  nature  with  whatever  conventional  sym- 
bols he  chooses  to  select.    After  all,  decoration  is 
not  merely  a  sensuous  beauty  of  pattern  made 
to   please   the   eye.    In   the   last   analysis   it    is 
Imagination;    the  indefinable  spirit  that  rejoices 
in  beauty  of  pattern  or  beauty  of  stntiment ;   the 
very  personal  impulse  that  selects  a  dream  or  a 
design   and    cherishes   it;    that   for   some   of   us 
exists  as  taste  and  for  others  of  us  as  poetry. 
Obviously  the  function   of  decorative   art   is  to 
give   pleasure,   and   the   spirit   that   animates  its 
creation  is  perfectly  in  accord  with  that  function. 
The  decorative  spirit  then,  although  perhaps  most 


/ 


111 


,M^ 


Ml'  i 


194      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

directly  applicable  to  the  plastic  arts,  is  a  potent 
force  in  all  art.  Let  us  consider  it  for  a  moment 
in  literature. 

Before  me  lie  two  recent  editions  of  the  Persian 
poet  Omar  Khayyam  as  rendered  by  Edward 
Fitzgerald  into  the  exquisite  English  poem  we 
know  so  well.  In  these  new  bottles  the  old  wine 
retains  its  richness.  The  colour  prints  by  Edmond 
Dulac  and  Frank  Brangwyn  sensitively  convey 
the  original  thrill  of  the  text.  Brangwyn's  pic- 
tures are  merely  arrangement's  of  jewelled  colours, 
flickering  as  if  about  to  disappear.  Dulac's 
illustrations  are  more  pictorial,  hinting  at  the 
mise  en  scene  —  the  Persia  of  Omar's  day.  We 
feel  rather  than  see  the  blue  of  distant  moun- 
tains, the  purple  and  green  of  vineyards,  the 
faint,  faint  tint  of  roses  drenched  in  moonlight. 
And  this  is  as  it  should  be.  It  is  with  colour  we 
associate  the  verse.  In  fact,  the  greater  part  of 
the  pleasure  that  we  derive  from  Fitzgerald's 
Omar  we  owe,  not  so  much  to  its  philosophy,  as 
to  its  sensuous  witchery  when  expressed  in  the 
music  of  memorable  words,  words  dimly  revealing 
beyond  the  shadows  of  the  proud  pessimism  a 
glow  of  oriental  peacock  and  old  ivory.  Pessi- 
mism that  really  means  despair  would  affect  us 
very  differently,  I  think.  Surely  the  old  poet 
while  he  arraigned  the  universe  and  renounced 
all  hope  was  taking  his  ease  on  some  lofty  terrace 
"  Losing  his  fingers  in  the  tresses  of 
The  cypress,  slender  minister  of  wine." 


n 


THE  DECX)RATIVE  IMAGINATION    195 

And  so  we  too  roll  the  Orient  quatrains  under 
our  tongue  to  suck  their  flavoui 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babyloiit 
Whether  the  cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 
The  wine  of  life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  sands  of  life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

But  do  we  enter  through  these  sad  thoughts  into 
a  darkening  vale  ?  No,  rather  the  enchanted  East 
—  the  land  of  golden  ports  where  ships  lie  sleep- 
ing, of  storied  cities  with  their  mosques  and 
minarets:  the  land  where,  in  the  shade  of  a  com- 
fortable oasis,  we  wr-tld  gaze  upon  the  burning 
skies  and  terrible  sanr  billows  of  the  desert.  Lo, 
the  spirit  of  decoration  has  enthralled  us!  The 
words  have  become  dreams  and  the  dreams 
pictures.  The  reverse  being  equally  true,  it  was 
in  all  seriousness  that  W.  E.  Henley  once  wrote 
of  the  paintings  of  Monticelli  "his  clangours  of 
bronze  and  gold  and  scarlet,  his  fairy  meadows 
and  enchanted  gardens  are,  so  to  speak,  that 
sweet  word  Mesopotamia  in  two  dimensions  .  .  . 
their  parallel  in  literature,  the  verse  one  reads  for 
sound's  sake  only." 

The  decorative  imagination  then  implies  a 
compromise  between  the  mind  and  the  senses. 
In  paiiitings  it  either  approaches  the  thought  and 
sentiment  of  romantic  poetry  or  the  abstract 
sensation  of  romantic  music.  To  such  extremely 
different  painters  as  Monticelli  and  Whistler  the 
same  achievement  is  often  ascribed,  namely  the 


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196      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

creation  of  colour-music.  Although  Whistler's 
colour  soothes  the  sense  like  subtle  webs  of  sound 
woven  by  violins,  whereas  Monticelli's  colour  is  a 
fanfare  of  bugles  and  drums  and  clashing  cymbals, 
wild,  persistent  and  exciting,  yet  the  aesthetic 
philosophy  of  the  two  men  is,  in  a  sense,  the 
same.  Both  wished  it  plainly  understood  that 
their  appeal  to  the  emotions  was  not  intellectual 
but  visual  —  a  percept  rather  than  a  concept  of 
life.  In  order  to  make  clear  his  seeking  for 
abstract  colour-music,  independent  of  subjects  and 
ideas.  Whistler  would  paint  a  vast  expanse  of  sea 
and  sky  and  call  his  marine  not  "Cloudy  Day 
on  the  Coast  of  France"  but  "Symphony  in 
Gray  and  Green"  or  in  "Violet  and  Blue." 
When  his  canvases  were  made  to  vanish  in  the 
mystery  of  starlight  there  was  no  romance  to 
stir  our  fancy  unless  we  felt  it  in  the  "Harmony 
of  Silver  and  Blue"  or  the  "Nocturne  in  Black  and 
Gold."  Quite  recently  I  saw  a  little  picture  by 
T.  W.  Dewing  which  carried,  quite  as  far  as  the 
master  would  have  wished,  the  symphonic  modu- 
lation of  tone.  In  a  bare,  high  vaulted  room, 
enveloped  in  mauve-tinted  twilight,  two  calm 
dim  figures  seemed  to  dwell  at  the  heart  of  a 
dark  yet  lustrous  pearl.  Both  Whistler  and 
Dewing  are  really  imaginative  in  spite  of  their 
colour  for  colour's  sake,  just  as  we  may  certainly 
ascribe  imagination  to  certain  composers  who, 
true  to  their  art,  attempt  to  express  nothing  but 
sound  lOk-  sound's  sake.     In  each  case  the  imagi- 


W   " 


n 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION    197 

nation  has  been  stirred  by  means  of  the  senses. 
Equally  imaginative  was  the  mad  dreamer  Mon- 
ticelli.  His  raptures  proceeded  from  very  chaotic 
mental  impressions.  Certainly  less  thought  went 
into  the  making  of  his  pictures  than  Persian 
weavers  put  into  their  rugs  and  Chinese  potters 
put  into  their  porcelains.  Yet  our  minds  insist 
upon  playing  with  these  fantasies  until  out  of 
one  picture  emerges  the  court  of  Haroun  al 
Raschid  and  out  of  another  the  court  of  the 
Fairy  Queen. 

In  striking  contrast  to  the  sensitive,  and  at  the 
same  time,  aggressive  refinement  of  decorative 
imagination  revealed  by  Whistler  and  Monticelli 
in  their  arbitrary  selections  of  harmony  there  is 
the  decorative  imagination  of  such  an  inspired 
scene-painter  as  Arnold  Bocklin.  His  mind  was 
impervious  to  refinements  and  subtleties  of  beauty 
but  was  richly  stored  instead  with  Greek  allegory 
and  fable  and  with  his  own  Germanic  legend  and 
literature.  From  these  bookish  influences  he 
derived  most  of  the  inspiration  for  his  pictures. 
Yet  he  was  no  mere  collaborator,  content  to  stage 
a  drama  or  illustrate  a  story.  Quite  the  contrary. 
Like  the  great  Wagner,  his  imagination  invested 
the  historical  or  mythological  episodes  of  his 
dreams  with  an  absolutely  new  glamour.  But 
whereas  in  the  art  of  Whistler  and  Monticelli  the 
emotion  inevitably  grows  out  of  the  decoration, 
since  the  decoration  is  the  emotion,  in  Bocklin's 
best  picture,  "The  Island  of  Death,"  the  mind  is 


•If 


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198      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

given   a  definite   image  to  symbolize   a  definite 
emotional  conception;    the  stormy  sky,  the  dark 
and  brooding  cypresses  silhouetted  against  it,  the 
mysterious  sepulchres  of  awful  majesty  hollowed 
out  of  the  soaring  amphitheatre  of  enclosing  rock, 
the  stillness  of  the  sea  as  the  barge  carrying  its 
shrouded    passenger    approaches    the    portentous 
shore,  every  detail  of  the  decoration  is  rich  in 
poetic  suggestion.    The  colours  and  the  design  are 
precise,   unalterable,   like   the  words  of  a  great 
lyric,    and    in    spite    of    ilie    literary   spirit,    the 
language  is  quite  legitimately  pictorial.    Just  as 
such  a  picture  will  affect  us  like  a  poem,  so  many 
a  poem  will  give  us  the  more  concentrated  and 
concise  sensation  of  a  picture.     Keats,  Coleridge, 
and    Rossetti  —  what    sumptuous    romantic    pic- 
tures they  painted!    The  other  day  I  was  walking 
quickly  through   an  exhibition  when  my  glance 
fell  upon  a  tiny  canvar  unmistakably  the  work  of 
Albert  Ryder.    It  vas  almost  without  colour  and 
with  only  a  vague  whisper  of  form,  yet  I  was 
made  to  pause  for  a  few  moments  enchanted  by 
the    air   of   old    romance.    The    title    was    "St. 
Agnes'  Eve"  and  at  once  I  thought  of  all  the 
frosty  moonlight  and  stained-glass  richness  and 
sweet,  enraptured  passion  of  the  poem  by  Keats. 
But  did  I  need  the  title  and  the  memories  that 
thronged  it?    Across  a  moon-white  porch  I  could 
see  the  lovers  hurrying,  and  beyond  the  Gothic 
arch   a   glimpse   of  moon-flooded   country.    The 
suggestion  was  not  really  of  Keats  but  of  the 


!  !: 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION    199 

ecstatic  mood  he  so  exquisitely  celebrated.  The 
title  gave  that  little  picture  of  Ryder's  a  definite 
literary  flavour,  but  its  almost  Monticellian  sketchi- 
ness  of  style  could  be  called  suggestive  but  not 
really  representative.  What  I  wish  to  illustrate  is 
the  essential  similarity  of  the  two  styles  of  deco- 
rative imagination,  the  abstract  and  the  concrete, 
art  for  the  sake  of  beautiful  pattern  and  art  for 
the  sake  of  beautiful  sentiment.  Unity  of  effect 
is  a=  essential  to  one  as  to  the  other.  If  this 
un  /  prevails,  the  two  styles  are  really  made  one 
by  their  identical  spirit  — the  spirit  of  romantic 

comedy. 

Although  literary  art  should  never  be  merely 
pictorial,  nor  pictorial  art  merely  literary,  yet  there 
is  no  reason  why  one  art  may  not  receive  sugges- 
tion and  inspiration  from  the  other  in  the  same 
way  that  both  receive  suggestion  and  inspiration 
from  Nature.     In  fact  a  picture  and  a  poem  may 
supplement  each  other  to  mutual  advantage.     I 
never  see  Titian's  "Bacchanals"  without  thinking 
of  two  precious  passages  of  Keats,  nor  can  I  read 
those    lines    without    recalling    the    two    superb 
canvases   by  Titian.     As  for  the  original  Greek 
myth  of  forsaken  Ariadne  following  Bacchus  over 
the  hills  and  dales  of  Naxos  by  the  sea,  this  legend 
becomes  of  vital  interest  to  us  all  because  of  the 
inspiration  it  has  been  to  art  so  great  that  it  can 
never  die.    Through  an  inspired  flash  of  decora- 
tive imagination  the  genius  of  Titian  revealed  the 
possibilities  of  emotional  expression  latent  in  the 


ih: 


1" 


/ 


V 


200      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

old  story;  the  mood  of  mind  that  stirred  Ariadne 
out  of  her  bitter  thoughts  to  become  a  part  of  the 
Pagan  joy  of  earth;  to  leap  and  sing  through  all 
the  glorious  morning  world,  exultant  with  the 
mad,  glad,  pulse  of  life;  to  follow  the  God  of  the 
merry  heart  wherever  his  whim  might  lead. 

"And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers:  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue, 
'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew! 

The  earnest  trumpet  spake  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din, 
'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin! 

Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came. 
Crowned  with  green  leaves  and  faces  all  a-flame. 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley 
To  scare  thee,  melancholy! 
I  rushed  into  the  folly. 

Whence  came  ye,  merry  damsels  —  whence  came  ye. 

So  many  and  so  many  and  such  gleer 

Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate 

Your  lutes  and  gentler  fate? 

We  follow  Bacchus  —  Bacchus  on  the  wing 

A-conquering! 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus,  good  or  ill  betide. 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide; 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  wild  minstrelsy." 


!     ' 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION   201 

Of  course  it  was  impossible,  even  for  so  supreme 
a  romantic  poet  as  Keats  to  rival  by  the  sheer 
richness  of  his  phrase  the  colour  of  so  supreme  a 
romantic  colorist   as  Titian.     But   the   poet   ex- 
perienced  the   same   mood   as   the    painter   and 
expressed  it  with  equal  fervour  and  inspiration. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  describe  or  imitate  the 
picture  but  the  wonderful  rhythm  of  its  colours 
and  lines  and  its  happy  vision  of  a  legendary 
world  thrilled  his  spirit  with  a  kindred  passion, 
so  that  through  his  own  medium  of  many  coloured 
words  he  too  rejoiced  to  use  his  decorative  im- 
agination.   Titian's  " Bacchus  and  Ariadne"  of  the 
National    Gallery,   London   is  not  only,  from   a 
technical  viewpoint,  one  of  the   most  beautiful 
things  in  the  world,  but  it  represents  the  climax  — 
the  topmost  pinnacle  of  poetic  rapture  to  which 
a  mere  colour-sense  may  successfully  aspire.     We 
do  not  need  to  know  anything  definite  about  the 
scene  represented.    We  understand  at  a  glance 
the  mood  for  which  the  old  myth  was  but   a 
symbol.    We  understand  what  at  the  same  mo- 
ment fascinates  and  repels  Ariadne  as  the  young 
wine    god,    waving    his    radiant    robe    into    the 
silvery  sky,  leaps  down  from  his  leopard-drawn 
chariot.    We  understand  what  he  means  to  the 
bronze-red    satyrs,    the    Earthmen,    and    to    the 
beautiful     Bacchantes     with     their     wind-blown 
draperies  of  flame-red  and  peacock-blue,  and  to 
the  goat-footed  baby  boy  who  with  misty  eyes 
skips  along,  a  little  dazed  by  all  the  frolic  and  the 


i  , 


,  ^1 


/ 


i 


ill 
i 


'i^i  *; 


1  ; 


202      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

ecstasy.  The  shadows  cast  by  the  creamy-tinted, 
billowy-bosomed  clouds  transfigure  the  deep  blue 
mountain  tops,  the  bronze-green  valley  and  the 
turquoise  sea.  There  is  an  irresistible  onwaid 
movement  in  the  sky,  and  on  the  earth.  Almost 
overpowering  is  the  exhilaration  with  joy  that 
tends  to  madness;  the  unreasoning,  onrushing 
riot  of  the  winds  in  heaven  and  of  the  hot  bood 
in  the  veins  of  youth. 

In  the  "Bacchus   and  Ariadne"  then,  Titian 
conceived  a  melodious  pattern  of  rhythmic  lines 
and  resounding  colours  that  expressed  quite  per- 
fectly the  Renaissance  conception  of  the  physical 
joy  of  living,  also  of  that  passionate,  thoughtless, 
never-ending  worship  of  beauty  that  delights  in 
life  and  light  and  all  the  lovely  things  that  thrill 
the  soul  and  pass  away.     In  the  Bacchanal  of  the 
Prado  Gallery,  Madrid,  the  means  of  expression 
are  the  same  and  the  subject  similar,  but  the  mood 
expressed  is  somehow  quite  different.     Here  the 
tones  are  less  vibrant,  and  more  mellow,  chest- 
nuts,  plums   and   deep   crimsons   predominating. 
The  texture  and  surface  quality  of  the  pigments 
and    the    canvas   are   varied    and    controlled   for 
emotional  effect  as  a  great  composer  varies  and 
controls  the  orchestration  of  his  symphony.     We 
are  made  one  with  Bacchus  and  his  crew.     Their 
richness   of  mood,  their   luxury  of  well-being  is 
ours  for  all  time.    The  revel  of  the  morning  has 
spent   its  fre.izy,   and   the   revellers   are   a  little 
weary  of  their  wine  and  song.     The  old  satyr  who 


i'::^ 

yiii 

THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION   203 

has  been  treading  grapes  on  the  sunny  hill  top 
lies  face  upward  watching  the  clouds  drift  by. 
The  purple  stream  still  trickles  down  the  slope  to 
the  luscious  pool  where  the  young  men  fill  once 
more  their  goblets.  A  few  a-e  singing.  A  few 
are  dancing.  But  the  animation  is  no  longer 
general.  Glad  are  the  fair  Bacchantes  to  throw 
themselves  down  on  the  pleasant  shore  and  let 
the  low  sounds  of  the  sea  merge  with  the  drowsy 
spell  of  golden  afternoon.  Dreamily  we  gaze 
with  them  at  the  sails  of  a  great  galleon  ou  spread 
in  the  lingering  light.  The  shadows  are  lengthen- 
ing. The  day  is  fading.  Already  it  seems  best 
to  revel  no  more  —  only  to  muse  how  merry  we 
have  been,  how  good  it  is  to  renew  one's  youth 
with  love  and  laughter  and  the  balm  of  golden 
air.  Once,  in  the  midst  of  a  poem  full  of  passion- 
ate dejection,  Keats  yearned  for  the  beauty  of  a 
Southland  Bacchanal. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep  delved  earth. 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance  and  Provencal  song  and  sunburnt  mirth! 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  south, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim 

And  purple  stained  mouth. 

That  I  might  drink  and  leave  the  worid  unseen 

And  with  thee  fade  into  the  forest  dim. 


I- 


IH 


;  1 


1     I,; 


/ 


'II 

ill 


«;» 


11 


/      ' 


204      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

There  was  a  great  difference  after  all  between 
the  symbolism  of  Titian  and  of  Keats.  The 
dream  that  was  but  a  poignant  feverish  desire  to 
the  overstrained  mind  of  the  dying  poet  was  the 
incarnation  of  joy  replete  and  overflowing  to 
the  triumphant  painter  of  perhaps  the  most  de- 
lightful romantic  comedy  that  the  world  has  ever 
known.  But  the  decorative  imagination  that  was 
the  magic  of  Titian  was  also  the  magic  of  Keats. 

Whistler  quarrelled  all  his  life  because  people 
would  not  take  his  ideas  about  decoration  seri- 
ously. He  kept  saying  that  nature  is  the  key- 
board, and  the  artist  the  composer  who  chooses 
and  arranges  his  note  i  and  combines  them  into 
chords  in  order  that  harmony  may  result.  The 
idea  was  not  original.  It  came  from  old  Japan. 
Nor  was  Whistler  the  discoverer  of  the  truth  that 
atmosphere  is  the  great  harmonizer,  that  the  great 
envelopment  of  air  is  not  only  the  one  medium 
for  seeing  things  truthfully  but  the  most  perfect 
means  for  seeing  them  harmoniously,  by  the 
fusion  of  nature's  various  colours  in  nature's 
artistry  of  light.  Velasquez  proved  all  this  cen- 
turies ago.  Whistler  was  so  afraid  of  sentiment 
and  50  afraid  of  being,  after  all,  like  other  people, 
that  he  was  inclined  to  exalt  the  technical  finesse 
of  his  art  and  to  conceal  the  l.ispirational  senti- 
ment of  his  spirit.  Fortunately,  every  now  and 
then  he  would  let  himself  go,  and  in  one  burst  of 
eloquence,  he  revealed  the  Occidental  motive  that 
inspired   his  Japanesque  nocturnes;    the   impulse 


Ji 


THE  DECORATIVE  IMAGINATION    205 

to  reveal  spiritual  beauty  close  at  hand,  even  on 
Chelsea   embankment   outside   of  his  own   front 
door,  where  "when  the  evening  mist  clothes  the 
humble  river-side  with  poetry,  the  poor  buildings 
are  lost  in  the  dim  sky  and  the  tall  chimneys 
become  campaniles  and  the  warehouses  are  palaces 
in  the  night."     Whether  we  prefer  to  express  the 
decorative  spirit  that  is  forever  buoyant  in  the 
heart  of  man  with  concrete  and  intellectual,  or 
with   abstract    and   purely   sensuous   charms,   in 
short,  whether  we  chose  to  follow  Italy  or  the 
Orient  in  our  style  of  decoration  —  this  depends 
upon   our   individual   tastes   and    temperaments. 
Personally  I  crave  the  beauty  that  is  "life  en- 
hancing" in  every  possible  phase  of  its  glorious 
existence. 


I 


S^  I 


r  ' 


m 


I 


t 


*:l 


hi 


XI 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY 

I  HAVE  always  held  that  unlike  science  and 
law,  philosophy  is  essentially  a  matter  of 
personal  feeling  and  consequently  of  in- 
numerable variations;  that  like  poetry  and 
religion  it  is  born  anew  out  of  each  individual 
consciousness,  rather  than  out  of  other  mens' 
brains  and  books.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  be- 
yond dispute  that  the  most  vital  philosophies  of 
all,  are  those  uncatalogued  states  of  mind  which 
we  call  moods,  so  closely  related  to  us  and  our 
affairs  as  we  go  our  various  ways,  that  they  are 
not  so  much  subjects  for  study  in  themselves  as 
undeveloped  resources  for  our  thoughts  and 
actions,  our  dreams  and  creations.  They  are  like 
ploughed  fields  of  human  life,  these  moods,  and  if 
the  soil  is  fertile,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain  do 
their  germinal  work,  out  of  the  seeds  of  observa- 
tion and  experience  may  spring  harvests  of  great 
material  and  spiritual  value.  These  states  of 
mind  need  not  be  merely  mental  but  may  be 
also  temperamental  and  subconscious.  Of  such  a 
kind  is  the  delicate,  elusive  mood  I  have  lately 
been  pursuing.  It  comes  quietly  into  being  from 
a  million  vague  influences.  But  however  indefi- 
nite the  cause,  of  the  result  it  is  possible  to  say 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     207 

that  it  is  a  philosophical  attitude  toward  life 
which  we  may  call,  however  inadequately,  the 
spirit  of  romantic  comedy. 

It  is  a  spirit  born  of  leisure  and  of  pleasurable, 
purposeless  half-hours,  such  a  spirit  as  the  strictly 
practical  people  might  find  it  difficult  to  wholly 
understand  —  and  tolerate.    Nor  could  it  be  ex- 
pected of  materialists  to  regard  it  otherwise  than 
with  suspicion.     For  it  is,  in  the  last  analysis,  a 
wistful  prolongation  of  the  philosophy  of  child- 
hood, as  sweet  and  unreasonable  a  thing  as  that. 
Many  and  many  of  us  there  are  who,  like  Mr. 
Barrie's    dream    boy    Peter    Pan,    are    loath    to 
abandon  our  lands  of  make-believe,  reluctant  to 
exchange  cur  princely  life  in  the  familiar  realms  of 
Never-Never  Land,  where  nothing  is  impossible 
because  everything  is  untrue,  for  a  rational  exist- 
ence in  some  commercial  city  where  the  elusive- 
ness  of  our  fancies  may  be  soon  replaced  by  the 
obviousness   of  ten   thousand   facts,  and   where, 
settled  in  some  comfortable  groove,  we  may  scorn 
to  believe  in  Fairies,  demand  i.  reason  for  every- 
thing and  by  excess  of  business  become  dull  to 
the  joy  of  living.    In  his  very  beautiful  essay  on 
"Child's  Play,"  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  urged  us 
to  remember  how  indifferent  we  once  were  to  the 
inscrutable  ways  of  our  elders  "upon  whom  we 
merely  glanced  from  time  to  time  to  glean  hints 
for  our  own  mimetic  reproductions."    "Two  chil- 
dren playing  at  soldiers,"  he  continues,  "are  far 
more  interesting  to  each  other  than  the  scarlet 


♦ ' 


'J ' 


I  i, 


il 


/ 


f!| 


,*:• 


7  • 


208      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

being  both  are  busy  imitating.  Art  for  art  is 
their  motto.  Not  Gauticr  nor  Flaubert  can  look 
more  callously  upon  life,  and  rate  the  reproduc- 
tion more  highly  over  the  reality."  This  delec- 
table comment,  like  many  others  in  the  essay, 
reveals  Stevenson's  unbroken  association  with  the 
dream-days  of  childhood.  Like  Peter  Pan  he 
never  really  grew  up  and  out  of  his  dreams. 
He  wrote  boys'  books  to  the  end  and  never  lost 
his  relish  for  adventure  in  life  and  art.  To  be 
sure,  he  indulged  in  retrospect  and  in  sentimental 
philosophising,  both  prerogatives  of  the  mature 
mind.  But  the  spirit  of  his  art  was  derived  from 
the  spirit  of  play.  The  castles  built  in  air  by  any 
imaginative  child  as  typically  represent  the  primi- 
tive impulse  as  do  the  books  of  Stevenson  the 
inspired  expression  of  a  spirit  common  to  both  — 
the  spirit  of  romintic  comedy. 

What  do  I  mean  by  this  phrase  "The  spirit  of 
romantic  comedy?"  Romance  implies  glamour, 
a  sense  of  beauty  that  also  hints  at  strangeness. 
Comedy  implies  llght-heartedness,  a  forgetfulness 
of,  or  an  indifference  to,  life's  more  serious 
affairs.  Both  romance  and  comedy  imply  a 
recognition  of  life  as  drama.  Shakespeare  ex- 
pressed the  thought  and  it  has  become  one  of  the 
precious  platitudes:  "All  the  world's  a  stage  and 
all  the  men  and  women  merely  players."  But 
there  is  a  difference  between  the  dramatic  func- 
tions of  romance  and  of  comedy.  When  we  are 
young  and  in  love,  when  some  vision  of  a  vanished 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY    209 

age  flashes  like  a  remembered  dream  across  our 
path,    when    we    stand    o.i    the    threshold     of 
mystery,  or  face  alone  the  imminence  of  tragic 
gloom,  then  romance  is  close  at  hand.     But  when 
our   minds   have   taken   to   the   open   road   with 
purposes  as  blithe  and  whimsical  and  wayward 
as  the  breeze  on  a  May  morning,  then  for  all  the 
beauty  and  strangeness,  for  all  the  sentiment  and 
sorrow   of   the   world,   nothing   seems   to   really 
count  with  us  save  laughter.    And  there  is  a  vast 
difference  between  the  temperaments  of  roman- 
ticist and  humorist.    The  true  romanticist  does 
not  need  the  settings  of  the  theatre  to  put  him 
in  the  mood  for  strutting  and  fretting  his  hour 
upon    the    stage.     He    may    outwardly    conduct 
himself  soberly  and  with  discretion.     But  behind 
the  closed  doors  of  his  mind  a  pretty  drama  is 
constantly  in  rehearsal.     How  his  enemy  writhes 
beneath  the  well-turned  rapier  of  his  wit!     How 
the  fair  lady  of  his  heart's  desire  nestles  within 
his  strong  arm!    Or,  if  adversity  crushes  his  hopes, 
if  the  enemy  or  the  lady  humbles  his  pride,  how 
powerful  is  his  woe,  how  irresistible  his  denuncia- 
tion of  gods  and  men.     When  all  is  well  with  him 
the  world  is  a  goodly  place.     He  responds  to  its 
pleasures  with  a  fervent  gusto.     But   if  he   has 
been  worsted  in  love  or  in  business,  if  he  has  played 
to  empty  houses,  or  if  the  curtain  has  descended 
upon    him    amid    disdainful    silence,    how    "flat, 
stale  and  unprofitable"  the  earth  can  be  for  him 
in  very  truth!    A  good  lover  and  a  good  hater, 


M 


210      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


J 


ir 


III 


with  a  great  hunger  for  life  and  a  nice  taste  in 
art,  he  is,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  a  good  fellow, 
the  romanticist.  But  he  lacks  that  quality  with- 
out which  no  man  is  safe  in  our  uncertain  exist- 
ence, the  quality  which  would  have  sweetened 
him  and  steeled  his  stout  heart  against  adversity 
far  better  than  his  clamour  of  grievances  —  a 
sense  of  humour.  Your  humorist,  in  no  matter 
how  sorry  a  situation  you  find  him,  is  never 
altogether  overwhelmed  and  comfortless.  Fate 
may  have  tricked  him  and  left  him  no  more 
prosperous  than  those  waifs  the  sparrows.  But 
if  he  is  like  them,  despised  —  he  is  also  like  them, 
chipper.  All  is  not  lost.  He  can  still  enjoy  the 
ridiculous.  Not  knowing  where  we  are,  or  why 
we  are,  or  what  we  are  —  life,  he  says,  is  a  huge 
joke,  not  to  be  taken  with  such  a  deep  sigh  and 
such  a  long  face.  Oh,  he  is  a  man  the  sad  and 
weary  old  world  could  ill  afford  to  do  without  — 
the  humorist.  But  is  there  no  soul  in  him? 
Will  nothing  ever  make  him  serious? 

Fortunately  the  Creator  quite  frequently  blends 
the  types,  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  we 
are  more  indebted  to  him  for  the  romancers  with 
a  sense  of  humour,  or  for  the  humorists  with  a 
soul  for  romance.  Most  of  the  really  great  poets 
and  thinkers  belong  to  the  first  category  and  to 
the  second,  the  universal  humorists  whose  great- 
hearted laughter  has  been  the  world's  most 
genuine  wisdom.  Art,  too,  has  flourished  because 
some  men  have  been  endowed  with  both  at 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     211 

of  humour  and  a  sense  of  glamour  and  the  quality 
of  art   thus   produced   is  of  a   most   subtle   and 
fascinating    quality.     Comedy    in    the    arts,    if 
allowed  to  run  it  j  natural  course,  tends  to  hu- 
morous   situation    and    expression,    romance    to 
tragedy  or  at  leas'  to  melodramatic  incident  and 
action.     But  tempered,  the  one  by  the  other,  we 
may  expect  not  necessarily  either  a  humorous  or 
a    romantic   story   but    a    mood,    an    intellectual 
flavour,  a  dream-like  fabric  in  which  humour  and 
glamour  are  so  interwoven  that  the  effect  thereby 
produced  pleases  us  wholly  by  reason  of  its  indefi- 
nite emotional  quality  —  seeming  to  sound  respon- 
sive chords  of  intimate  feeling  long  silent  within 
us.     This    romantic    comedy    can    express    itself 
merely  by  suggestions,  conveyed  through  symbols 
of  colour  and   form,  of  sound  and   measure,  of 
musical,  colourful  and  meaningful  words.    It  may 
be  fantasy,  satire,  make-believe.     It  may  be  a  little 
faded  in  colour  or  indefinite  in  outline,  as  are  all 
composite  things.    Almost  might  one  compare  it  to 
an  observation  that  becomes  transformed  in  the 
describing  or  to  a  dream  of  the  night  that  takes  on 
new  meaning  in  the  light  of  day.     The  country 
parties  that  Watteau  depicted  seem  oppressed  by 
a  vague,  insistent  melancholy,  yet  this  sadness  of 
the  artist's  spirit  he  disguised  by  a  semblance  of 
vivacious  gaiety.    The  little  street  scenes  and  land- 
scapes of  Decamps  appear,  at  first  sight,  mere  trifles 
of  colourful  and  pleasant  humour.    But  soon  enough 
they  reveal  to  us  their  truly  Oriental  witchery. 


I 


,  I 


h 


Hi 

.if   I 


(  ! 


212       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

When  the  romanticist  is  endowed  with  a  sense 
of  humour,  he  may  still  wish  to  hold  the  centre  of 
the   stage,    to   go   a-questing   on    some   senseless, 
perilous  mission,  his  every  nerve  a-thrill  with  the 
possibilities  for  glory  and  the  zest  of  the  crusade. 
But   now   the   worst   foe   to   his   self-esteem,   the 
greatest  peril  in  his  path,  is  that  he  might  appear 
ridiculous    to    himself.     When    the    humorist    is 
endowed  with  a  sense  of  glamour,  he  may  still 
desire  to  see  the  world,  just  as  it  is,  without  any 
such  deceptive  properties  as  limelight.     He  may 
still  wish  to  laugh  away  all  the  froth  and  sham  of 
sentimentality  and  bombast.     But  there  comes  a 
time    when    his    laughter    at    day-dreams    rings 
hollow    and    false;     when    he,    the   jester,    would 
cherish   a   vision   of  the   golden    age   and   in   the 
moonlight    be    a    Romeo.     With    his   wit    he    has 
held  men  to  the  Realities,  but  the  Realities  have 
played  him  false.     As  he  looks  back  upon  his  life 
the  day-dreams  seem  the  most  vital,  certainly  the 
most  beautiful,  part  of  his  existence.     He  has,  let 
us  say,  amused  men  with  his  nonsense.     He  has 
said  that  everything  in  life  is  wildly  ridiculous; 
that   cows   might   any   time   take   to  golf  in   the 
pasture  or  to  polite  conversation  with  the  milk- 
maid.    Why    not?     Stranger    things    have    hap- 
pened.    But  now  he  does  not  laugh.     He  says  to 
the    romanticist    "You     are    right;     there    is    a 
glamour  about  this  mad  old  world  that  haunts 
me  as  it  has  haunted  you.     Everything  is  indeed 
possible  to  us  because  our  minds  have  dreams  and 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     213 

our  spirits  vings  and  the  realities  cannot  confine 
us.  "All  the  world's  a  stage  and  all  the  men  and 
women  merely  players."  Let  us  return  to  the 
spirit  of  our  childhood.  Let  us  make  believe. 
And  so  to  humour  there  is  added  the  sense  of 
glamour,  and  to  glamour  the  sense  of  humour; 
and  because  the  spirit  of  man  must  expand  and 
express  its  joy  in  the  magic  of  the  mysterious 
world,  Nature  supplies  the  materials  for  creations 
of  mimetic  and  imaginative  beauty,  and  art  cjmes 
into  being  that  a  richer  life  may  result. 

It  was  that  prophet  of  self-culture,  Walter 
Pater,  who  said  that  "the  basis  of  all  artistic 
genius  lies  in  the  power  of  putting  a  happy  world 
of  its  own  creation  in  place  of  the  meaner  world 
of  our  common  days."  In  other  words,  art  is 
not  a  reproduction,  but  a  transforming  represen- 
tation of  life.  Whether  the  artist  has  treated  his 
theme  in  a  realistic  or  in  a  romantic  fashion  mat- 
ters little,  his  function  has  in  either  case  been  a 
representative  one,  representative,  not  necessarily 
of  his  observation,  but  of  himself.  Perhaps  he 
has  sensuously  and  thoughtlessly  celebrated  the 
beauty  of  his  subject  in  sound  or  colour  or  clay. 
Perhaps  he  has  criticised  it  in  one  of  its  phases, 
expressing  through  the  medium  of  his  particular 
art  his  particular  thought  and  feeling.  How 
often  we  hear  it  said  of  some  dramatist,  novelist 
or  painter  who  is  rigorously  imitative  and  imper- 
sonal in  method  — "this  is  not  art,  this  is  a  slice 
of  life,"  or  some  such  phrase.    Nonsense!    We 


( I 


i'S 


f 


! 

( 

n 
,  H 


)    • 


214       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

cannot   possibly  rival   Reality  with  our   realism. 
All  we  can  do  is  to  represent,  each  of  us  his  own 
impression.     If  the  representation  is  close  to  the 
reality,    there    remains    one    insuperable    barrier 
between,  and   that   barrier  is   the  artist.     When 
shall  we  learn  that  Art  is  not  so  truly  the  reflec- 
tion  of  Nature   as   of  human   nature?     Let   the 
different  schools  then  cease  to  wrangle.     The   fit 
shall  continue  to  survive  the  unfit  as  it  was  in  the 
beginning  and   all  who  are   true  artists  whether 
they    are    romantic    or    realistic    shall    perform 
fundamentally  the  same  function   —  that  of  trans- 
forming the  meaner  world  of  their  common  days 
into    a    happier    world    of    their    own    creation. 
Why  a  happier  world?     Because  art  implies  joy, 
not  necessarily  in  the  thing  expressed,  but  in  the 
means,    the    glorious    possibility    of    the    soul's 
expression.     Where  there  is  no  soul  there  is  no 
art.     It  is  from  the  alembic  of  the  soul  that  the 
essence  of  truth  emerges  yet  more  true,  and  of 
beauty  yet  more  beautiful. 

The  artist  therefore  seeming  to  take  his  art 
more  seriously  than  his  life,  lightly  assumes  this 
or  that  point  of  view  even  as  a  child  assumes 
various  characters  in  his  make-believe.  To  the 
child  play  is  the  all-important  part  of  the  day's 
business.  And  it  is  out  of  this  same  spirit  of 
play  that  the  no  less  joyous  and  irresponsible 
spirit  of  art  unfolds,  to  be  all  in  all  for  the  artist. 
Alike  to  the  make-believing  child  and  to  the 
make-believing  artist  the  world  is  full  of  glorious 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     215 

possibilities  for  fun  and  fantasy.     Granting  then 
the  kindred  inwardness  of  child's  play  and  the 
arts  of  men,  the  whimsical  earnestness  of  mind 
and  effervescence  of  spirit  necessary  for  both,  let 
us  think  once  more  of  our  subject,  the  spirit  of 
romantic  comedy  and  of  its  devotees.     They  are 
the  men  for  whom  dreams  are  the  truest  truth, 
for  whom  romance  can  never  die,  for  whom  the 
world  is  still  as  strange  as  story  books,  for  whom 
the  golden   age   exists  once   more.     The   Golden 
Age,  when  everyone  was  young  and  happy  and 
had  his  desire,  when  beauty  was  everywhere  and 
there  was  neither  passion  nor  pain  —  why  should 
it  be  the  joy  only  of  the  Ancients?    The  myth- 
makers    of    every    race    afforded    this    dreamy 
thought  to  their  people  so  that  in  their  weariness 
of  spirit,  when    baffled   by  the   business  or   the 
narrowness  of  their  lives,  they  might  escape  from 
themselves  and  thinking  upon  happy  things  attain 
at  least  a  measure  of  happiness.    Art  itself  being 
as  we  have  seen  an  escape  from  fact,  from  the 
relentless   pressure   of  undeniable   truths,    artists 
soon  found  in  the  depiction  of  the  Golden  Age 
their    richest    opportunities    for    self-expression. 
Especially  in  Italy  during  that  flowery  springtime, 
the  early  Renaissance,  men  cherished  the  dream 
of  an  Earthly  Paradise  where  may  be  found  all 
that  is  desirable  in  existence  and  where  all  that 
is   undesirable   may  be   forgotten.     In   London's 
National    Gallery    there    is    a    small    anonymous 
Italian    painting,  dating  from   the  late  fifteenth 


4' 


l^ 


Ml!' 

III    . , 


;     •  I 


2i6       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

century,  which   seems    to  represent   Plato's  con- 
ception of  the  Golden  Age,  of  course  from  the 
North  Italian   point  of  view.'    Whoever  painted 
it,  the  little  dream  is  of  rare  charm,  less  by  reason 
of  its  now  damaged  beauty  than  because  of  its 
quaint    subject    and    sentiment.     In    a    pleasant 
landscape  where  wild  animals  live  in  peace  among 
men  and  the  earth  is  overflowing  with  ferns,  and 
fruits,  and  flowers,  a  benevolent  monarch,  ruling 
we  suppose  by  love  rather  than  by  law,  is  receiv- 
ing the  homage  of  his  people.     At  the  foot  of  his 
throne  a  gentleman  strums  lazily  on  a  mandolin. 
Nothing  could  be  more  serene.     Later  we  find, 
instead  of  this  boyish  conception,  a  mature  vision 
of  the   Happy   Land,   its  vague   blissfulness,   its 
rich,    incredible    loveliness.     Such    a    painting    is 
Giorgione's  "Pastoral  Symphony"  of  the  Louvre 
which  seems  to  soothe  the  spirit  like  strains  of 
sweetest  music  in  moments  of  idle,  dull  content, 
or    of   swift    enraj.'-ured    memory.     The    Golden 
Age   therefore    has  not   vanished   beyond    recall. 
It  lives  in  the  dreams  and  games  of  imaginative 
children  when  their  lot  is  cast  in  pleasant  places. 
It  lives  in  the  dreams  and  works  of  imaginative 
artists  when   they  have   dared   to  listen   to  the 
voice  from  inmost  dreamland  calling  them. 

Such  an  artist  is  Rene  Menard,  the  most  poetic 

>  Catalogued  School  of  Giorgione  and  by  some  critics  attributed  to  the 
master  himself  in  his  early  youth.  Judging  from  some  mannerisms  char- 
acteristic of  that  excellent  although  little  known  painter  of  Cremona,  I  be- 
lieve that  the  author  is  Bartolomeo  Veneto. 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     217 

painter  since  Corot.  No  other  living  master  of 
artistic  expression  responds  to  so  fresh  and  fine 
an  inspiration.  He  frankly  acknowledges  that  he 
is  more  in  sympathy  with  the  ancients  than  with 
the  restless  impulses  and  conflicting  purposes  of 
modernity.  To  the  beauties  of  Greek  poetry, 
architecture  and  sculpture,  his  mind  turns  back 
with  genuine  longing,  and  it  is  his  aim  to  express 
something  of  the  lost  Homeric  simplicity  and 
strength,  and  of  the  lost  Theocritan  sweetness 
and  serenity.  But  he  would  express  all  this  in  a 
modern  way,  through  the  modern  medium  of 
landscape  painting,  chanting  his  personal  love 
for  the  youth  of  the  world  and  the  mystical  days 
when  gods  dwelt  among  men,  through  a  sym- 
bolism of  oak  forests  and  starlit  streams,  of  many 
sounding  seas  and  everlasting  hills.  Within  this 
dreamland  the  shepherds  of  Theocritus,  the  heroes 
and  horses  of  the  Parthenon  frieze,  seem  a  part 
of  the  rhythmical  harmony  of  Nature.  As  for 
the  landscapes,  they  are  the  homeland  of  a  culti- 
vated mind  when  it  is  aimlessly  and  deeply 
dreaming.  The  Greeks  would  have  painted  just 
such  landscapes  had  they  known  the  secret. 
Even  the  colours  disclaim  realistic  intent.  If  the 
forms  are  intellectual  and  Greek,  the  colours  are 
emotional  and  of  the  Venetian  Renaissance. 
Their  grave  harmonies  and  subdued  glories  of 
tone  communicate  the  artist's  own  exaltation  and 
peace  of  spirit. 
On  the  walls  of  Menard's  studio  in  Paris  hang 


2i8       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 


f 


I 


'I 

f 


replicas   in   pastel   of  practically   all   of  his   im- 
portant compositions.     The  effect  is  most  impres- 
sive.    When  I  entered  this  room  one  hot  after- 
noon last  summer,  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  and 
of  rejoicing.     Here  was  the  remedy  for  the  ugli- 
ness and    the  disillusionment  of   the  boulevards 
and  of  the  exhibitions.     I  had  seen  the  detestable 
pictures  of  Matisse  and  his  gang  of  post-Impres- 
sionists.    Like   ill-bred   children   they   seemed   to 
shout   in   my   ear   their   favorite  impudence  "Le 
laid   c'est   le  beau."     I   had  seen   at   the   Musee 
des  Arts  Decoratifs  an  interesting  innovation  in 
mural   painting  by  Aman   Jean   that   seemed   to 
sum  up  for  me  the  spirit  of  modern  art  in  Paris, 
if  not  of  modernity  in  general.     On  a  bench  in  a 
park  three  young  girls  droop  listlessly,  their  every 
look  and  gesture  indicating  ennui.     It  is  evidently 
a  picnic,  for  fruit  and  cake  have  been  laid  upon 
the    lawn.     But    they    seem    ill    at    ease,    these 
objects,  under  the  gloomy  stare  of  an  aproned 
domestic    who    sits    beside    them    brooding.     A 
young  worldling  has  mirthlessly  dressed   up   an 
old   poodle  with  his  plumed  hat   and  theatrical 
cloak,  and  on  the  cloak  sits  a  monkey,  clashing 
cymbals.     But  the  drearily  bored  young  women 
are  anything  but  amused.     Even  the  dachshund 
on    a    chair   looks   quite    contemptuous.     In    the 
studio  of  Rene  Menard  I  forgot  all  this.     After 
the  mental  stuffiness  of  the  schools  it  was  sweet 
to  breathe  the  clear,  pure  air  that  blows  from 
wind-swept   Ilium.     But   the  wonder  of  it,   this 


SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMEDY     219 

dream  of  a  world  amid  the  various  sensations  and 
preoccupations  of  the  boulevard  Montparnasse! 
I  expressed  my  wonder  to  the  artist.  His  answer 
was  straight  to  the  point :  "  Mais  je  peux  poursuivre 
mon  reve."  To  pursue  one's  dream — through 
a  mocking  or  at  least  indiflferent  world  —  is  not 
that  the  spirit  of  child's  play,  the  spirit  of  art, 
the  spirit  of  romantic  comedy? 

There  is  one  essential  difference  between  this 
spirit  in  child's  play  and  in  the  mature  arts  and 
moods    of   men.    The    make-believing    child,    as 
Stevenson  said  "spends  three-fourths  of  his  time 
in  a  dream  and  the  rest  in  open  self-deception." 
But  to  grown  men  and  women  the  living  of  their 
own   lives   is   drama   enough.     It   is  one  of  the 
compensations  for  growing  up  that  with  the  larger 
wisdom  of  the  years  comes  the  delicate  apprecia- 
tion of  the  poetry  that  is  the  soul,  even  of  science, 
and  of  the  mystery  that  abides  even  at  the  open 
heart  of  truth.     Many  of  us,  it  is  true,  find  un- 
conscious  delight   in    returning   to   the   point   of 
view  of  our  chiluhood,  revelling  in  certain  stage 
properties  of  romance  as  the  child  revels  in  his 
cardboard    castles    and    tin    soldiers.     But    such 
pleasure  is  now  our  pastime,  no  longer  our  philos- 
ophy.   And  even  when  we  are  most  romantic  it 
is  not,  in  the  old  sweet  way,  for  the  sake  of  the 
romance,  but  professedly  at  least,  for  some  more 
serious  purpose.    The  birdmen  who  fly  on  their 
man-made  wings  up,  up  to  the  dizzy  height  of 
four  miles  mto  infinite  cloudland  —  they  are  not 


I 


>  t 


li   , 

1 

1 

^r 

i 

220       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

flying  for  flying's  sake  in  spite  of  the  wild  joy  of 
their  adventure.  They  are  solemnly  establishing 
the  supremacy  of  Man  over  the  Natural  powers 
of  Air,  just  as  other  conquerors  have  long  since 
estiblished  his  dominion  over  the  natural  powers 
of  Earth.  What  make-believe  adventure  could 
be  more  romantic  than  such  calculating  calm 
business  as  that?  But  although  I  suppose  every 
one  can  see  the  glamour  in  the  life  of  the  aero- 
naut, it  is  not  so  easy  to  appreciate  the  romance 
of  the  average  uneventful  existence.  A  certain 
philosophy  is  necessary  for  such  deep  perception 
and  few  of  us  have  time  now-a-days  for  philosophy 
especially  when  it  is  not  definitely  formulated  in 
books.  Yet  such  a  state  of  mind  is  the  best 
sort  of  an  equipment  for  the  knightly  ordeal  of 
life.  It  is  obvious  that  the  man  for  whom  life 
is  a  drama  will  take  more  pains  to  play  a  hero's 
part  than  the  man  who  just  submits  to  a  period 
of  forced  labour  and  imprisonment,  or  joylessly 
squanders  an  embarrassment  of  time.  I  read  the 
other  day,  in  a  very  readable  new  book  by  Mr. 
Holbrook  Jackson,  that  "Gilbert  Chesterson  pos- 
sesses a  toy  theatre  of  which  he  is  not  only  sole 
proprietor  but  scene-painter,  playwright,  general 
manager  and  manipulator,  all  rolled  into  one. 
His  favourite  play  is  'St.  George  and  the  Dragon' 
which  may  be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  his  own  life 
and  point  of  view.  The  play's  the  thing,  but  the 
play  is  the  eternal  play  of  light  triumphing  over 
darkness.    In    real    life    Chesterton    goes    forth 


»      >' 


fiii 


MONUMENT  OF  CANGRANDE 

By  an  Unknown  Sculptor 


;  M 


t 


,  I 


I'-  ■ ' 

1 

SPIRIT  OF  ROMANTIC  COMED;      221 

every  day  to  slay  the  Dragon  of  Despair.     That 
is  his  romance  —  that  is  his  joy.     And  his  faith 
forever  tells  him  that  all  his  comrades  shall  ulti- 
mately meet  to  drink  with  him  'from  the  great 
flagons  in  the  tavern  at  the  end  of  the  world.'" 
Ah,   yes,   life   is   a   drama   of  humour   and   of 
glamour   and    death    is   the    tremendous   climax. 
The    spirit    of    romantic   comedy   regards    death 
with  the  most  eager  curiosity.     That  painter  of 
oft-times  grotesque   imaginings,   Arnold    Bocklin, 
in  a   remarkable  portrait  once   imagined  himself 
overtaken    by   the    grim    messenger.     Wide-eyed, 
alert,  every  sense  awake,  "a-tiptoe  on  the  highest 
point  of  Being"  he  listens  to  the  thrilling  secret 
told   in   music   to  his  ear.     Strongest   is  he  still 
among  us  and  wisest,  who  can  thus  bear  himself 
without  fear  and  without  reproach,  and  go  forth 
to  conquer  circumstance  high-spirited  and  happy- 
hearted.     One    of   my    richest    memories    of   the 
memorable  old  town  of  Verona  is  the  tomb  of 
the  most  illustrious  of  the  Scaligers,  the  host  of 
the   exiled    Dante,   Can   Grande.     His   effigy  on 
horseback,  horse  and  man  in  full  battle-armour, 
need  not  be  taken  as  his  true  image.     But  this 
is  no  ordinary  tomb.     There   is  an   idea  in  the 
statue,  a  tribute  to  character,  as  if  the  mediaeval 
sculptor  had  been  stirred  by  the  inspiration  of  a 
great  man  to  the  expression  of  a  great  thought. 
The  conqueror's  helm  has  been  thrown  back  and 
we  behold  him  on  his  way  to  battle,  yet  grinning 
in  the  very  face  of  Death  with  the  joy  of  a  single 


'*! 


A 


I     I 

i  I 


t 


4\ 

t  '  '  i    \ 


222       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

merry  moment.  Indulgence  then  in  the  spirit  of 
romantic  comedy  is  not  merely  a  luxury  for  the 
dreamer  of  dreams.  It  is  to  be  well-armoured 
for  our  brave  adventure. 

"  For  romance  is  not  dead  nor  can  it  die  — 
Until  the  springtime  lose  its  fragrant  breath, 
When  in  the  light  of  love  all  things  are  fair, 
Until  no  more  Man  hears  some  battle-cry, 
Until  he  goes  no  more  to  meet  his  death 
Into  the  Dark  fearless  and  debonnaire." 


•H 


III 

h  .1 


1^ 


XII 

ROMANTIC  COMEDY  IN  EARLY  ITALIAN 
PAINTING 

IT  is  a  natural  but  deplorable  tendency  of  the 
historian  of  art  to  emphasize  the  production 
of  a  master,  and  pass  quickly  by  the  work 
of  his  pupils  and  immediate  followers,  on  the 
assumption  that  they  must  be  merely  imitators, 
with  nothing  of  their  own  invention  to  consider. 
This  is  a  mistake,  both  because  of  the  injustice 
often  done  to  the  artist  thus  belittled,  and  because 
it  is  often  impossible  to  gauge  the  entire  artistic 
aspiration  of  a  remote  century  by  the  study  of 
only  two  or  three  of  its  more  outstanding  creators. 
Giotto  is  now  estimated  at  his  true  worth  as  a 
man  of  exceptional  genius,  endowed  with  an  amaz- 
ing instinct  for  the  decorative  and  the  dramatic. 
He  inaugurated  naturalistic  observation  and  may 
justly  be  entitled  the  father  of  modern  realism. 
He   discovered    all   that   we   know   about   space 
composition  and  deserves  with  equal  justice  to  be 
called   the   father  of  modern   mural   decoration. 
His  soul  was   deeply  stirred   by  the   drama   of 
human  life,  especially  as  symbolized  by  the  life 
of  Christ.    To  express  great  moments  of  great 
emotion,  this  was  his  aim.    With  an  instinctive 
understanding  of  the  limits  of  pictorial  expression, 


I'  im 


1'; 


I    ■ 


I 


!>l 


I' 


!  ! 


!,  'M 


V 


h-O 


224      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

he  never  attempted  to  depict  more  drama  than 
the  eye  can  see  at  one  moment.  Well  may  we 
wonder  at  the  untaught  genius  of  the  man.  Yet 
in  his  very  greatness  as  an  artist  lay  the  cause  of 
his  incompleteness  as  an  initiator.  In  his  noble 
purpose  to  get  directly  to  the  heart  of  his  dra- 
matic conceptions  and  omit  irrelevant  detail,  he 
cultivated  an  amazing  indifference  to  all  the 
inanimate  objects  of  natural  beauty  and  to  all 
the  trifling  incidents  and  casual  momentary 
appearances  of  the  actual  world.  So  mediaeval 
was  he  in  his  aesthetic  point  of  view  that  he  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  merely  entertaining,  and 
was  quite  unconscious  of  a  need  for  a  background 
to  his  human  drama.  And  so  we  are  confronted 
with  the  paradox  of  Giotto's  art,  which  is  also 
the  paradox  of  the  mediaeval  mind,  a  splendid 
emotional  energy,  eager  to  possess  the  truth,  yet 
converted  into  a  shallow,  because  impersonal, 
symbolism  by  its  disregard  of  man's  relation  to 
his  surroundings.  If  then,  Giotto's  followers  had 
been  merely  imitators,  there  would  have  been  no 
familiarity  with  and  appreciation  of  the  pictorial 
possibilities  of  life  itself.  There  would  have  been 
none  of  that  romantic  glamour  cast  over  the  real- 
ities by  personal  vision,  which  constituted  the 
many-sided  charm  of  the  Italian  Renaissance, 
and  which  remains  to-day  the  soul  of  modern  art. 
The  frescoes  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli  in  the  Riccardi 
Chapel  at  Florence  do  not,  like  the  frescoes  of 
Giotto  in  the  Arena  Chapel  at  Padua,  represent 


-*  ^    : 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING         225 

a  culmination  of  the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages  nor 
a  prophecy  of  the  decoration  of  modern  times,  but 
just  the  buoyant,  healthy,  imaginative  childhood 
of  an  art  that   is  happy  in  the  unstudied  and 
unsorted  charms  of  the  present  moment  and  con- 
tent to  be  gay  and  thoughtless  with  the  youth 
that  comes  but  once.     Benozzo  was  everything 
that  Giotto  was  not,  and  nothing  that  he  was. 
He  had  no  conception  of  pictorial  unity  nor  of 
the   well-proportioned   design   of  a   given   space. 
He  was  stirred  by  no  great  emotions,  and  pene- 
trated to  none  of  the  essential  significances.     So 
fond  was  he  of  just  the  things  Giotto  despised,  — 
the    inanimate    objects    of   natural    beauty,    the 
trifling  incidents  and  momentary  appearances  of 
the  visible  world,  that  these  things  were  crowded 
together  on  his  pictures  with  the   most   boyish 
disregard  for  consistency  and  the  most  obvious 
ignorance  of  that  first  aesthetic  principle,  selection. 
Decidedly,    Benozzo    was    no    great    genius    like 
Giotto.     Yet   he  loved   the  gaiety  and   the  gla- 
mour of  life,  and  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  his 
art    could    not    be   better   employed    than    with 
representing  this  gaiety  and   glamour,  as   much 
of  it  at  least  as  he  could  afford  to  paint  with  the 
colours  that  his  patrons  of  the  house  of  Medici 
provided. 

This  interest  in  life,  for  the  sake  of  its  pleasant- 
ness and  beauty,  was  the  seed  from  which  was 
soon  to  flower  the  Renaissance  of  Italian  painting. 
It  by  no  means  originates  with  Benozzo  but  with 


mH 


»  4 

,      1    »! 


111! 


I  \ 


u  h     K 


226      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  contemporaries  and  imitators  of  Giotto.  For 
although  the  master  himself  seems  to  have  had 
little  interest  in  the  external  aspects  of  the  earth, 
yet  we  find  Altichieri  at  Verona  drawing  a  little 
group  of  soldiers  in  the  North  Italian  armour  of 
the  period  throwing  dice  in  the  very  shadow  of 
the  Cross  of  Calvary,  and  at  Siena  in  the  Palazzo 
Pubblico  is  the  famous  fresco  by  Simone  Martini  of 
a  stout  dignitary  riding  forth  to  battle  on  a 
weird  charger,  along  castle  walls  bristling  with 
spears  but  ever  so  much  smaller  than  himself. 
In  the  adjoining  room  the  allegories  by  Ambrogio 
Lorenzetti  are  chiefly  interesting  for  their  histori- 
cal suggestiveness.  Yet  they  reveal  true  powers 
of  observation  and  an  awakened  sense  of  the 
pictorial.  Farmers  are  depicted  coming  through 
the  gates  of  fourteenth-century  Siena  from  the  wide 
harvest  fields  with  their  fruit  ?nd  grain  packed 
on  the  backs  of  donkeys.  Under  the  grim  brick 
battlements  they  pass  on  into  the  streets  of  the 
prosperous  town.  Through  the  open  door  of  one 
house  we  look  in  upon  a  lecture.  In  another 
corner  a  group  of  children  have  joined  hands  and 
are  dancing  in  a  ring.  Then  came  Paolo  Uccello, 
a  bold  initiator  with  a  true  decorative  and  roman- 
tic spirit.  His  battle  scenes  are,  to  be  sure,  a 
trifle  ludicrous,  the  thick-necked  horses  that  rear 
and  plunge  about  amid  the  welter  of  pikes  and 
lance?  resembling  the  wooden  animals  of  the 
merry-go-round  and  the  nursery.  But  the  sub- 
ject is  a  most  daring  and  difficult  one  from  a 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


227 


technical  view  point,  and  that  such  subjects 
should  have  been  attempted  at  the  beginning  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  reveals  the  spirit  of  adventure 
now  uppermost  in  art.  The  monks  even  were 
alive  to  the  new  interest,  for,  although  Fra 
Angelico  was  absorbed  in  his  devout  reveries, 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi  was  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  his 
paintings  of  the  Virgin  and  attending  angels  are 
full  of  the  fresh  physical  beauties  of  girls  and 
flowers.  At  the  home  church  in  Prato,  he 
painted  the  Banquet  of  Herod  with  Salome 
danci'ig.     Romanticism  was  well  upon  its  way. 

But  now  let  us  return  to  the  Riccardi  Chapel 
and  linger  a  moment  longer  with  that  delightful 
person  Benozzo  Gozzoli.  At  Pisa  he  painted  an 
idyllic  picture  of  a  Tuscan  vintage  to  illustrate 
the  drunkenness  of  Noah.  Here  at  Florence  the 
Journey  of  the  Three  Kings  was  converted  into 
an  excursion  of  the  Medici  and  their  visitors 
from  the  Orient  and  their  retinue  of  flunkies  over 
the  hills  of  Tuscany.  But  despite  its  Florentine 
farms  and  villas,  the  landscape  through  which 
passes  the  brilliant  cavalcade  never  really  existed 
save  in  the  minds  of  children  and  other  dreamers 
as  childlike  as  Benozzo.  Huge  brightly  coloured 
birds  fly  through  the  air.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
animals  about,  from  plain  dogs  to  camels  and 
leopards,  and  all  sorts  of  growing  things,  from 
flowers  and  mushrooms  to  cypresses  and  stone 
pines.  In  the  fairylike  backgrounds  glimmer  the 
red   roofs  of  delicious  towns,  one  of  them   San 


11 


1 1 
i  I 


m 


mi 


n 


.' 


I    ! 


W  j\ 


228      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Gimignano.  But  no  matter  how  Tuscan,  they 
are  none  the  less  make-believe,  for  that  somehow 
is  the  spirit  of  Benozzo.  Oh,  but  the  passing 
pageant  is  gay  on  those  dark  walls  of  the  little 
chapel  —  gay  as  the  images  of  a  dream  that  leaves 
the  awakening  mind  blurred  and  bewildered  with 
the  sense  of  having  seen  and  done  extraordinary 
things!  The  joyous  mood  which  inspired  the 
painter  in  these  frescoes  is  given,  perhaps,  its 
fullest  expression  in  the  panels  representing  Para- 
dise. Here  the  landscape  is  fairly  overrun  with 
pretty  angels,  many  of  them  making  a  joyful 
noise  unto  the  Lord,  others  skipping  along  the 
fields  with  burdens  of  ii-nts  and  flowers.  But 
one  and  all  of  the  heavenly  maids  are  wearing 
peacock  wings. 

The  residence  of  Benozzo  in  Umbria  for  a 
number  of  years  had  a  most  decided  influence  on 
Umbrian  art,  which  was  just  then  in  a  formative 
stage.  The  genial  and  entertaining  spirit  of  the 
Florentine  decorator,  combined  with  the  impor- 
tant technical  studies  in  aerial  distances  of  that 
greatest  of  the  Umbrians,  Piero  della  Francesca, 
may  be  said  to  have  produced  the  Perugian 
painter  Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo,  who,  in  turn,  handed 
on  Benozzo's  spirit  of  romantic  comedy  and 
Piero's  mastery  of  level  light  to  his  pupils  Peru- 
gino  and  Pinturicchio.  But  Fiorenzo  himself  is 
an  acquaintance  well  worth  making.  Once  you 
have  met  him  and  marked  the  unique  mental 
attitude  of  the  man,  and  you  are  not  liable  to 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


229 


forget  him  soon.  His  "Miracles  of  San  Bernar- 
dino" are  curiously  new,  not  so  much  in  what 
they  illustrate  as  in  the  way  they  illustrate  it, 
with  the  most  engaging  irony  and  with  a  seem- 
ing arriere-pensee.  What  the  illustrator  of  these 
miracles  was  really  interested  in  was  the  impres- 
sive swagger  of  the  young  men  at  Perugia.  They 
appealed  hugely  to  his  pictorial  sense  with  their 
chic  and  shapely  legs  and  their  little  scarlet 
caps,  and  they  appealed  even  more  directly  to 
his  sense  of  humour.  It  was  an  mspiration  to 
make  these  fashionable  pretty  fellows  the  audi- 
ence for  the  miracles  of  San  Bernardino.  How 
discreetly  incredulous  they  seem  as  they  stand 
about  selfconscious  and  yet  very  much  at  their 
ease.  They  are  granting  the  Saint  the  favour  of 
their  patronage,  and  at  the  same  time  amusing 
themselves,  mildly.  And  all  the  while  they  are 
themselves  a  most  amusing  spectacle.  Too  vain 
and  flippant  to  be  religious;  too  dainty  and 
delicate  for  warfare,  they  are  at  least  good  enough 
to  look  at  and  to  laugh  at,  thought  Fiorenzo  di 
Lorenzo.  And  the  thought  itself  is  a  new  thought 
for  art  to  indulge  in.  It  has  crept  mischievously 
into  a  religious  picture  like  a  truant  schoolboy 
into  churcF  It  is  not  really  a  thought  at  all, 
but  a  mood,  an  impulse  to  luxuriate  in  good- 
natured  cynicism  and  in  a  sort  of  masquerading 
fantasticality.  There  is  something  of  this  spirit 
in  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  There  is  much  of  it, 
perhaps  too  much  of  it,  in  modern  painting. 


■k 


\  I 


:if 


\ 


>•.•< 
1^^ 


i 


hi 


I 

I 


S^ 


r 


I  > 


'    i 


230      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Meanwhile  the  fascination  of  the  new  syle  of 
naturalistic  oil  painting,  as  practiced  in  Belgium 
and  made  familiar  in  Italy  by  the  work  of  Hugo 
van  der  Goes,  was  blended  with  the  even  more 
potent  fascination  of  classical  learning  —  the 
new  world  of  ancient  dreams  and  fantasies  that 
seemed  to  offer  the  Italians  that  intellectual  and 
aesthetic  liberty  which  for  so  long  a  time  they  had 
subconsciously  desired.  Piero  di  Cosimo  was  one 
of  the  painters  whose  sensitive  spirit  responded 
eagerly  to  both  these  inspiring  influences  from 
the  north  and  south.  One  of  the  most  interesting 
pictures  recently  acquired  by  London's  National 
Gallery  Is  Piero's  portrait  of  a  knight  in  armour 
with  the  Piazza  dei  Signori  in  the  background. 
On  the  shadowy  checkered  pavement  beneath 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio  may  be  seen  some  Florentine 
gentlemen  absorbed  in  animated  conversation. 
On  the  yellow  houses  of  the  street  beyond  the 
late  afternoon  sun  is  glowing.  The  knight  in 
armour  is  well  enough,  but  that  background, 
transporting  us  to  the  very  heart  of  old  Florence, 
is  even  better.  Imagination,  however,  was 
starved  by  the  aesthetic  nourishment  of  the  Low 
Countries,  and  the  hungry  mind  of  the  Florentines 
turned  with  relish  to  the  romantic  images  of 
Greek  allegory  and  fable.  The  classical  impres- 
sions derived  from  the  schools  of  Florence  at  this 
period  were  of  such  vaguely  glimmering  quality 
as  the  impressions  of  dreamy  little  boys  who 
browse  in  big  books  that  they  scarcely  under- 


^  J 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


231 


stand.  And,  just  as  children  grasp  most  eagerly 
images  that  seem  to  them  most  strange  and 
startling,  so  the  early  Florentine  classicists  were 
drawn  rather  to  the  fantastic  symbols  of  Greek 
pantheism  than  to  the  serene  spirit  of  Greek 
poetry.  Pass  from  the  portrait  by  Piero,  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  to  his  well-known  "Death 
of  Procris"  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  note  how 
a  self-assured  though  restless  realism  may  easily 
develope  into  an  immature  appreciation  of  ro- 
mance, and  in  so  developing,  become  in  a  sense 
less  successful  but  infinitely  more  important. 
For  in  this  quaint  and  delightful  Gothic  concep- 
tion of  a  classic  story,  a  poignant  note  is  sounded, 
as  of  indefinite  longing  and  of  haunting  experi- 
ence. In  the  foreground  we  witness  the  inarticu- 
late suffering  of  a  faun  at  the  death  of  his 
well-beloved.  Procris  is  cold  and  still,  with  the 
bright  warm  lights  and  colours  of  the  spring-time 
ail  around  her,  and  her  woodland  lover  and  faithful 
dog  wistfully  mourning  the  pity  of  her  fate. 
The  clear  bright  enamelled  colours  of  the  flowers 
and  grasses  and  the  beautiful  blue  background  of 
lake  and  sky  have  a  Flemish  origin,  and  for  a 
similarly  naive  expression  of  romantic  feeling  in 
the  telling  of  a  sweet  and  simple  tale,  one  must 
see  the  pictures  of  Saint  Ursula's  pilgrimage  by 
Hans  Memlinc  in  the  quiet  hospital  of  Bruges. 

The  classicism  then  of  Piero  di  Cosimo 
amounted  simply  to  a  hankering  for  greater 
freedom  of  imagination.    The  Greek  spirit  was 


I 


K 


•;i 


I'li 

14,; 


r. 


i.  ^h  ^  ». 


232      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

really   as   alien   to   him   as   to   that   other   more 
distinguished  dreamer  of  ancient  dreams,  Sandro 
Botticelli.     Writers     in    commenting    upon    this 
master  invariably  use  the  same  words  and  phrases, 
—  "classical    rhythm,"    "mediaival    mysticism," 
"intense  sensibility,"  "yearning  for  an  intangible 
something."     There  is  a  passionate  anxiety  always 
noticeable   in   this   artist's   work   to   discard    the 
actualities  and  the  appeal  of  the  senses,  and  return 
to  a  Greek  world  of  abstract  thought  or  an  early 
Christian  world  of  disembodied  revery.     Yet  all 
this  really  proceeds  from  a  jaded  worldliness,  a 
nature  prone  to  self-indulgence  in  the  luxury  of 
moods.     The    reason    for    Botticelli's    popularity 
now-a-days  is  that  we  thoroughly  understand  his 
unquiet  mind  and  aspiration.    Rossetti  and  Burne- 
Jones  expressed  the  same  vague  feelings  but  they 
only   reminded    us,   not    that   they   belonged    to 
the  fifteenth  century  in  Italy  but  that  Botticelli 
belongs  to  the  nineteenth  century  in  London,  or 
in  any  other  age  or  place  where  life  has  become 
too  complicated  to  be  entirely  healthy.     And  yet 
the     disillusioned     melancholy    of    the    neurotic 
artists— such    men    as    Botticelli    and    Rossetti, 
Watteau     and     Verlaine  —  their     melancholy     is 
synonymous    with    a   very   vivid    sense    of   life's 
glamour.     And  in  the  end  their  thoughtful  works, 
so  sad  in  spirit,  so  often  tragic  in  temperament, 
have  that  lyrical  quality  which  serves  to  steep 
the  mind  in  a  beautiful  dream  of  life's  magic  and 
its    masquerade.    As    I    sat    before    Botticelli's 


<  ■  ii 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


*33 


"Primavera"  at  the  Florence  Academy  I  felt  its 
fascination  quite  overcoming  a  cherished  preju- 
dice. I  realized  that  although  Botticelli  was  not 
a  great  colorist  yet  he  was,  in  a  very  true  sense, 
an  impressionist  in  his  use  of  colours. 

On  my  first  visit  to  this  picture  I  scribbled  in 
my  note-book  the  following  interpretation:  In 
the  twilight  of  this  dim,  mysterious  wood  where 
the  spirit  seeks  to  dwell  when  haunted  by  a  sv/eet 
unrest,  it  is  fitting  that  the  air  should  be  so  sil- 
very green,  like  sea  foam  in  the  mist,  and  that  the 
garment  of  the  month  of  May  should  be  bedecked 
with  flowers,  and  of  the  maidens  three  a  veil  of 
sunflushed  dew,  and  of  the  Goddess  of  Love,  with 
her  fullness  of  knowledge  and  fruition  of  desire 
and  unsatisfied  yearning  in  the  colour  of  the  full- 
blown petals  of  the  rose.  That  life  is  sweet  in 
springtime  but  with  an  oppressive  languor  or 
foreboding,  the  painter  seems  to  say.  The  mind 
turns  back  upon  itself  and  dreams  its  dream,  with 
little  apprehensive  thrills.  Such  is  the  dawn  of 
love  in  Botticelli's  dreamland.  We  all  know  the 
type  of  mind  that  he  so  loved  to  brood  upon, 
the  type  that  luxuriates  in  melancholy  and  takes 
excitement  wearily.  People  who  live  like  this 
never  quite  learn  to  discount  the  waywardness 
of  their  moods.  They  are  always  hungering  for 
thirst  and  thirsting  for  hunger.  They  can  always 
find  a  pleasure  masquerading  in  their  pain  and 
a  sharp-eyed  pain  lurking  ambushed  in  their 
pleasure.     Like  the  low,  wild  music  that  stirs  us 


1,1 


'lil 


r 


:!*■ 


I 


I 


%i'J 


II        < 

ii 

r 


234      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

with  uneasy  rhythms  to  emotions  that  we  cannot 
explain,  this  picture  of  Botticelli's  would  lead  us, 
lure  us,  out  of  all  peace  of  mind  forever.  Can 
this  be  the  joy  of  living  —  this  languid  dance  of 
the  maidens  beneath  uplifted  arms?  No,  for 
they  move  as  move  the  deep  sea  waters,  fitfully. 
And  the  eyes  of  youth,  they  are  troubled  eyes, 
afraid  to  be  so  happy.  And  the  month  of  May 
strews  flowers  over  the  earth  but  withholds  some 
unkind  secret  all  her  own.  And  behind  the  young 
tree  trunks  the  air  is  silvery  green,  like  sea  foam 
in  the  mist. 

The  intellectual  appeal  of  Botticelli  is  only  a 
little  less  modern,  a  little  less  for  all  time,  than 
that  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.     Leonardo  was  ap- 
parently the  first  painter  who  dared  to  think  of 
the  immensity  of  nature,  the  miracle  of  human 
individuality,  the  riddle  of  life's  mysterious  ebb 
and   flow.     His   scientific    instinct   was   amazing. 
His  hunger  for  reality  was  insatiable.     His  sense 
of  romance  was  sure.     Almost  overpowering  seems 
his  genius,  whether  we  think  of  him  as  the  mage 
and  seer  anticipating  modern  inventions,  dream- 
ing of  the  way  that  men  should  fly,  or  as  the  poet 
of  the  secret  heart,  the  artist  who  loved  to  watch 
the  undercurrent  of  deep  waters,  and  in  the  slow 
smiling  of  women  to  perceive  the  swirling  eddies 
at  the  depths  and  bubbling  ripples  on  the  surface 
of  the  soul.     His  landscapes  are  very  wild  and 
strange,  blue-green  in  tone  and  full  of  rocks  that 
the   eternal   streams   have   worn   away.     Hushed 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


235 


are  these  haunts  with  the  wonder  and  the  terror 
one  might  feel,  as  Pater  suggested,  in  the  caverns 
af  the  bottom  of  the  sea  or  in  other  "places  far 
withdrawn."  But  they  are  only  backgrounds  for 
the  greater  mystery  of  human  life  —  sometimes  a 
group  of  wistful  women,  and  little  children  play- 
ing —  sometimes  a  woman's  portrait,  very  ex- 
quisite, like  that  of  the  incomparable  sphinx, 
Mona  Lisa.  Half  at  least  of  the  fascination  of 
this  portrait  lies  in  the  tantalizing  enigma  of  the 
lady's  smile.  Many  an  interpretation  is  possi- 
ble, and  each,  for  the  time,  seems  convincing. 
Was  she  a  masterful  magnificent  woman  with 
cruel  eyes,  directing  her  underlings  through  plots 
and  counterplots,  smiling  disdainfully  at  their 
weakness  of  will?  Or,  is  not  her  subtle  expres- 
sion, after  all,  one  of  weariness  and  remonstrance, 
the  look  of  a  serious,  patient  woman's  long- 
enduring  of  the  giddy  whirl  of  revelling  Florence  ? 
In  her  grave  morality  might  she  not  have  been  a 
convert  of  Savonarola's  ?  And  yet  could  she  have 
been  a  good  woman  with  such  eyes?  Surely  she 
had  experienced  many  things  and  sheltered  many 
secrets.  And  judging  from  the  little  twitch  of 
malicious  amusement  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
—  people  might  think  of  her  what  they  wished, 
but  her  secrets  they  would  never  know.  When 
I  think  of  her,  it  is  not  lightly,  to  speculate  about 
La  Gioconda,  what  she  might  or  might  not  have 
been,  but  to  brood  upon  the  eternal  woman  that 
she  symbolizes  and  upon  the  fantastic  background 


P 


m 

1 1 


'^Wf 


!f 


i 

'   T. 


236      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

that  symbolizes  the  glamour-haunted  hiding-places 
of  our  own  souls. 

Botticelli  and  Da  Vinci  therefore  are  chiefly 
fascinating  and  important  because  they  introduce 
new  phases  of  artistic  expression.  Ever  since 
Giotto,  pictures  had  been  more  or  less  imitative. 
Whatever  romance  pervaded  this  immature  natur- 
alism was  a  matter  of  temperament  on  the  part 
of  the  artist  —  an  exuberance  of  gay  spirits  in 
Benozzo  Gozzoli,  a  keen  sense  of  the  fantastic  in 
Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo.  But  soon  enough  this  in- 
creasing indulgence  in  the  display  of  romantic 
temperament  made  possible  the  genius  of  Botti- 
celli, who,  diverted  from  life  by  his  infatuation 
with  learning,  may  be  said  to  represent  "the 
particular  moment  in  history  when  the  medizval 
was  aspiring  to  the  classical  with  infinite  though 
ineffectual  desire."  Da  Vinci,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, represents  the  romantic  temperament,  no 
longer  seeking  beauty  on  the  outside  of  things, 
like  Lippo  Lippi,  nor  in  the  realms  cf  meta- 
physics, like  Botticelli,  but  in  the  deep  places  of 
human  consciousness  and  experience.  Pictorial 
art  had  become  thoroughly  subjective,  not  uncon- 
sciously but  deliberately,  and  with  clear  compre- 
hension of  art  as  a  means  for  presenting  definite 
impressions  and  effects.  This  subjectivity,  how- 
ever, was  more  intellectual  than  ssthetic.  To 
appreciate  Botticelli  one  should  bear  in  mind  the 
confusion  of  influences  in  Florence  at  his  day. 
One  should  think  of  Lorenzo  di  Medici  and  La 


m 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


237 


Bella  Simonetta  and  Savonarola  and  the  revived 
legend  of  Aphrodite  rising  from  the  sea.  To 
appreciate  Da  Vinci  one  should  know  his  life 
from  Vasari  and  his  profound,  adventurous  intel- 
lect from  his  writings.  Painting,  therefore,  was 
not  yet  capable  of  appealing  directly  to  our  sense 
of  sight,  independent  of  the  mind  and  its  associa- 
tions. The  independence  of  the  eye  which  enables 
painting  to  be  regarded  as  a  self-sufficient  crea- 
tion, not  merely  as  an  illustration  of  a  story  or  a 
dogma  —  the  philosophy,  in  other  words,  of  art 
for  art's  sake  was  first  proclaimed  by  the  Vene- 
tians of  the  Renaissance,  by  Giorgione  and  by 
Titian.  But  '^'e  may  find  its  principles  being 
almost  uncons  iously  absorbed  and  professed  in 
the  later  works  of  the  founder  of  the  Venetian 
School  —  Giovanni  Bellini.  Perhaps  it  was  from 
the  glorious  marbles  and  mosaics  of  San  Marco 
or  from  the  precious  ornament  imported  from  the 
Golden  East  that  Venetian  painters  learned,  even 
in  the  earliest  period  of  Byzantine  church  decora- 
tion, to  regard  colour,  as  we  now  regard  music  — 
as  in  itself  —  a  language  of  the  emotions.  The 
new  oil  medium  which  Bellini  was  the  first 
Venetian  painter  to  employ,  was  practised  by 
him  with  such  inspiration  in  the  giving  of  richness 
and  transparency  to  his  tones,  that  the  actual 
technique  of  painting  took  on  a  significance  and 
a  dignity  which  hitherto  men  had  only  dimly 
apprehended.  Beauty  of  a  strictly  aesthetic  kind 
was  slowly  but  surely  formulated  in  the  work  of 


I 


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■'I' ' 


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HI'  I 


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238      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

this  master  of  old  masters.  Appearing  at  first  in 
the  clear  mountain  air  and  sunset  splendours  of 
landscape  backgrounds  to  most  dolorous  pictures, 
it  came  in  the  end  to  make  these  backgrounds  of 
equal  importance  with  the  figures  in  emotional 
expression. 

The  little  picture  of  madonna  and  saints  on  a 
platform  overlooking  a  lake,  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery, 
Florence,  is  commonly  regarded  as  an  allegory 
involving  the  Tree  of  Life.  Yet  what  it  means 
I  neither  know  nor  care  to  know.  It  may  be 
that  the  painter  did  have  some  meaning  to  ex- 
press, in  which  case  he  failed  to  make  his  idea 
intelligible.  Any  well-conducted  tourist  might 
with  sufficient  reason  disapprove  of  the  incoher- 
ence and  improbability  of  the  conception.  Would 
saints,  for  instance,  ever  meet  in  quite  so  dis- 
orderly and  casual  a  manner?  Could  St.  Sebas- 
tian have  possibly  looked  so  bored  and  non- 
chalant, even  for  a  moment?  "What's  the  use 
of  posing  anyhow?"  he  seems  to  be  thinking. 
"There  are  so  many  other  saints  at  this  party, 
that  to  be  stuck  with  arrows  appears  to  be  no 
distinction  at  all."  I  have  an  idea  that  Bellini 
dreamt  this  picture.  Perhaps  just  before  he  fell 
asleep  he  had  been  marshalling  in  his  mind  the 
images  of  the  various  saints  he  was  commissioned 
to  paint.  In  his  dream  they  had  all  assembled 
to  discuss  the  arrangement  of  the  picture  and 
many  other  things  beside.  Even  St.  Anthony  in 
his   cave   was   within   speaking   distance   of  the 


■| 


\W 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


239 


marble  platform  on  which  the  madonna  and 
saints  were  holding  their  informal  conference. 
In  the  centre  several  babies  were  playing  around 
a  tree,  the  Christ  Child  one  of  them.  For,  tired 
of  the  grown-up  talk,  he  had  left  His  mother's 
arms.  It  was  all  then  very  obviously  a  dream, 
with  its  confusion  and  its  artlessness.  But  it  wasi 
a  delicious  dream,  for  the  platform  overlooked  a 
little  limpid  lake  that  mirrored  the  most  fantastic 
rocks,  agate-colour  in  the  shadows  and  old  ivory 
in  the  light.  A  canopy  of  ruby  red  sheltered 
Our  Lady,  and  the  dreamer  wondered  whether, 
upon  awakening,  he  would  remember  how  rich  a 
red  it  was.  So  impossible  was  it  to  make  sense 
out  of  the  proceedings  on  that  platform  that  the 
dreamer  just  kept  looking  with  joy  at  the  wonder- 
ful colours  and  at  the  saints  with  much  surprise  — 
as  they  seemed  to  act  in  ways  so  human  and 
unselfconscious.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  they 
look  like  this  in  pictures  instead  of  always  posing 
around  a  throne?  Out  of  the  jumble  of  such 
riotous  thoughts  and  images,  I  like  to  think  this 
little  picture  grew.  It  has  about  it  the  magic  of 
dreams.  Its  thrilling  colour,  its  bewitching  non- 
sense, its  mood  of  complete  detachment  from  the 
actual  world,  all  seem  to  testify  that  this  is  a 
dream  come  true  —  a  phantom  of  sleep  remem- 
bered and  given  perpetual  life  through  the  new- 
born magic  of  art.  What  does  it  all  mean?  I 
neither  know  nor  care  to  know.  Interpretations 
are  no  longer  necessary  as  they  were  with  the 


i  J 


1.  !! 

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■>* . 


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lir 


240      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

dreams  of  Botticelli  and  Da  Vinci.  The  humour 
and  the  glamour  that  pervade  this  apparition  are 
meaning  enough  for  me. 

The  spirit  of  romantic  comedy,  therefore,  was 
at  last  given  immortal  expression  with  the  help 
of  the  spirit  of  art  for  art's  sake.  Giorgione  and 
Titian  then  emancipated  themselves  completely 
from  the  rule  of  the  Church,  and  in  giving  free 
play  to  their  fancy,  expressed  their  personal  taste 
and  temperament  But  these  great  romanticists 
deserve  separate  consideration.  There  were  other 
painters  of  the  Quattrocento  whose  important 
function  it  was  to  coniiect  the  romantic  impulse 
of  the  inspiring  Bellini  with  the  romantic  achieve- 
ments of  the  Venetian  Renaissance  at  its  height. 
Such  painters  were  Cima  da  Conegliano  and  Vittore 
Carpaccio.  Although  Cima's  themes  were  usually 
ecclesiastical,  occasionally  we  come  upon  romantic 
improvisations.  At  Berlin  there  is  a  little  picture 
of  knights  duelling  on  a  golden  plain,  and  at  Parma, 
Endymion  lies  asleep  on  a  wooded  knoll  over- 
looking a  peaceful  valley.  In  his  last  period 
Cima  emulated  the  brothers  Bellini  and  Carpaccio 
as  a  painter  of  srmptuous  Venetian  pageants. 
But  this  was  Carpaccio's  particular  field,  espe- 
cially when  the  ceremonies  could  be  made  to 
represent  not  merely  scents  but  stories.  He  had 
no  conscience  whatever  in  regard  to  the  law  of 
pictorial  unity,  crowding  his  surfaces  with  literary 
incidents.  Yet  he  is  so  delightfully  suggestive 
and  so  stimulating  to  our  historical  dreameries, 


h    f   1 


EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTING 


241 


that  we  gladly  forgive  him  and  even  love  him  for 
being  so  attractively  himself  —  ever  the  trouba- 
dour and  teller  of  tales  —  ever  the  sweet-souled, 
high-spirited  observer  of  a  wonderfully  spectacular 
life.  And  when  upon  rare  occasions  he  painted 
a  small  easel  picture  —  how  good  it  is  in  colour 
and  light!  There  are  a  few  scenes  from  his  fluent 
brush  with  simple  domestic  settings,  almost 
Dutch  in  their  fidelity  to  fact,  although  pervaded 
by  a  sentiment  that  is  pure  Italian  in  its  flavour. 
It  is  always  with  a  thrill  of  real  affection  for  the 
painter  that  I  think  of  his  picture  of  little  blonde 
St.  Ursula,  tucked  so  snugly  under  a  dull  red 
coverlet  in  her  high  four-posted  bed.  The  mingling 
of  naturalistic  observation  with  the  sense  of  ro- 
mance and  the  hint  of  strangeness  makes  this  picture 
most  delightful.  For  although,  in  her  disquieting 
dream  an  angel  appears  to  the  little  girl,  all 
ominous  and  mysterious,  yet  we  can  see  her 
slippers  under  the  bed,  her  lap  dog  dozing  on  the 
floor,  her  books  still  open  on  the  rack  where  she 
left  them,  and  the  morning  sunshine  streaming 
into  the  quiet  room,  fresh  and  warm  with  the 
light  of  another  wholesome  day.  The  subtly 
interwoven  strands  then  of  beauty  and  strange- 
ness —  like  the  pattern  of  life  itself,  charm  us 
with  much  more  than  Carpaccio's  usually  ephem- 
eral interest.  Here  we  rejoice  with  the  artist 
of  long  long  ago  in  the  ageless  "life  enhancing" 
spirit  of  romantic  comedy. 


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XIII 
GIORGIONE 

ON  the  fertile,  pleasant  plain  that  lies 
between  Venice  and  the  Austrian 
mountains,  in  the  little  town  of  Castel- 
franco,  about  four  hundred  and  forty 
years  ago,  was  born  the  first  modern  master  of 
the  art  of  painting  —  Giorgione.  Before  him,  in 
Belgium,  the  oil  medium  had  been  introduced. 
Before  him  the  scenes  of  scriptural  story,  the 
formulas  of  the  Faith,  the  saintliness  of  the 
saints,  had  been  depicted  in  coloured  pictures  for 
the  instruction  of  the  people  and  for  the  glory  of 
the  popes.  Before  him,  in  the  works  of  such 
inspired  dreamers  as  Da  Vinci  and  Botticelli,  the 
principles  of  pictorial  art  had  been  moulded  and 
the  thoughts  and  sentiments  of  our  own  time 
anticipated.  But  Giorgione  was  the  first  painter 
to  really  appreciate  the  nature  of  beauty  and  the 
beauty  of  nature.  He  was  the  first,  not  merely 
to  revive  the  aesthetic  spirit  of  the  ancient  Greeks 
who  had  sought  beauty  for  its  own  sake,  but  also 
to  understand  that  the  glorious  possibility  of  art 
in  the  Christian  civilization  was  to  devote  itself 
to  an  intensely  personal  expression.  His  new 
xstheticism  aspired  to  no  vast  abstract  beauty 
but  to  detect,  by  means  of  the  individual  con- 


GIORGIONE 


243 


sciousness,  the  myriad  concrete  proofs  that  the 
world  is  beautiful;  that  there  is  beauty  in  the 
variable  expression  of  the  human  face,  beauties 
in  the  trees  and  hills  of  home,  in  the  lights  of 
morning  and  the  shadows  of  afternoon,  in  colour 
and  character,  in  music  and  old  memories,  in  the 
evanescent  moods  of  every  passing  hour.  Gior- 
gione  was  the  glad  prophet  of  a  new  spirit  to  a 
world  that  for  many  dark  centuries  had  stifled 
the  natural  but  supposedly  sinful  craving  for 
beauty  and  truth,  and  was,  before  his  coming, 
ever  so  cautiously  groping  its  way  out  of  ecclesi- 
astical domains  into  the  boundless  realms  of 
personal  impressionism.  Within  the  space  of  ten 
years  from  the  time  that  the  brilliant  boy  from 
Castelfranco  went  down  to  Venice,  he  became  as 
Ruskin  said,  "a  fiery  heart  to  it,"  the  chief 
inspiration  of  its  pictorial  Renaissance.  Almost 
instinctively  he  grasped  the  secret  of  artistic 
expression,  the  great  principle  of  Unity,  the  sub- 
jection of  parts  to  the  whole;  and  to-day  we  are 
the  heirs  of  a  splendid  tradition  of  pictorial  liberty 
and  light  handed  down  to  the  nineteenth  century 
through  Rubens  and  Watteau  in  the  romantic, 
through  Velasquez  and  Chardin  in  the  realistic 
line  of  descent.  The  historical  importance  of 
Giorgione  has  been  underestimated,  because  of  the 
greater  glory  of  Titian,  and  because  the  erudite 
critics  of  our  scientific  epoch  have  been  busy 
challenging  the  authenticity  of  most  of  the  few 
pictures  he  left  us. 


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lift.        (; 
I'll        '' 


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244      THE  ENCHA^^^MENT  OF  ART 

After  Giorgione's  death,  in  the  early  years  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  when  Titian  was  still  faithfully 
following  the  example  of  his  revered  comrade 
before  developing  his  own  more  robust  genius, 
when  even  the  aged  Giovanni  Bellini,  in  his  altar 
painting  for  the  church  of  S.  Maria  Chrisostomo 
in  Venice,  abandoned  his  lifelong  formality  of 
style  for  the  new  romantic  intimacy  so  success- 
fully practised  by  his  former  pupil,  when  smaller 
men,  not  in  Venice  alone  but  over  all  Italy,  paid 
Giorgione  the  tribute  of  imitation,  and  no  collec- 
tion of  merchant  prince  or  doge  could  be  com- 
plete or  self-respecting  without  an  example  of  the 
lost  leader's  genius,  it  is  not  surprising  that  there 
should  have  been  a  lively  sale  of  bogus  Gior- 
giones,  some  of  them  school-pieces  by  pupils, 
others  copies  by  contemporary  craftsmen.  When 
the  science  of  the  modern  scholar  and  connoisseur 
was  directed  to  this  state  of  affairs  a  rigid  in- 
vestigation was  conducted.  Unfortunately  Gior- 
gione seldom  signed  his  canvases  and  there  are 
few  existing  manuscripts  relating  to  his  produc- 
tions. From  such  contemporary  writers  as  Vasari 
we  learn  of  his  general  characteristics  as  a  man 
and  as  an  artist;  of  his  love  of  pleasure  and 
music,  of  the  boldness  of  his  imagination  and 
technical  invention,  of  his  great  influence  over 
his  associates.  But  no  pictures  are  definitely 
described.  Only  four  easel  paintings  can  be 
positively  authenticated,  and  of  these,  three  were 
seen  in  Venice  by  a  certain  Anonimo  (1525-1575) 


t;' 


GIORGIONE  245 

and  the  fourth  is  the  "Madonna  and  Saints"  in 
the  home  church  of  San  Liberale  at  Castelfranco. 
The  critics  therefore  had  a  difficult  task  passing 
judgment  upon  the  unsigned  and  unidentified 
pictures  of  obviously  Giorgionesque  character. 
Attempting  to  confine  their  attributions  to  works 
closely  resembling  the  four  acknowledged  genuine, 
they  overiooked  the  fact  that  they  were  dealing 
with  the  inventive  genius  of  a  bold  initiator,  who 
was  ever  seeking  new  worlds  to  conquer  and 
rapidly  shifting  from  one  style  and  subject  to 
another.  The  mistake  that  caused  Crowe  and 
Cavalcaselle  to  ascribe  Giorgione's  own  pictures 
to  his  pupils  was  due  to  the  fact  that  they  did 
not  fully  comprehend  the  spirit  of  the  man,  and 
the  mannerisms  of  his  mind  and  hand.  They 
merely  studied  and  compared  brush  strokes  and 
models  heedless  of  two  important  facts,  (i)  that, 
in  processes  of  restoration  the  original  brushwork 
has  vanished  from  the  majority  of  old  pictures, 
and  (2)  that  Giorgione  was  constantly  changing 
his  models  and  passing  them  on  to  his  contem- 
poraries. Therefore  the  true  criticism  should  pay 
more  attention  to  the  personal  and  technical 
peculiarities  displayed  in  an  old  picture  than  to 
its  mere  substance  or  the  present  aspect  of  its 
surface.  Through  all  his  changing  phases  there 
is  one  spirit  in  the  work  of  Giorgione,  a  spirit 
unlike  any  other  in  the  history  of  art.  Let  us 
seek  out  that  spirit  and  understand  it.  It  will 
be  our  only  safe  clue. 


il 


i  '■ 


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,'> 


u 

;  I''. 


■,\ 


ft 

J! 


¥1      if  ' 


246      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

The  ten  or  twelve  pictures  which  arc  now 
unchallenged  and  generally  accepted  as  the  work 
of  Giorgione  reveal  the  man's  mind  and  the 
artist's  technical  peculiarities.  In  these  pictures 
we  find  a  wide  diversity  of  subjects  but  a  single 
prevailing  spirit,  in  which  is  mingled  a  knight's 
love  of  strong  men  and  fair  women,  a  poet's 
fondness  for  dreamy  moods  detached  from  the 
indifferent  world,  and  a  painter's  passion  for 
colour  and  for  light  and  shade.  There  are  never 
any; jarring  notes,  the  taste  is  always  exquisite, 
the  colours  harmonious,  the  drawing  arbitrary  but 
emotionally  expressive.  From  his  very  earliest 
pictures  the  little  biblical  romances  that  glow, 
one  on  each  side  of  Bellini's  exquisite  allegory  at 
the  Uffizi  Gallery  at  Florence,  we  may  miss  the 
distinction  of  feeling  and  the  scrupulous  expres- 
sion of  only  the  significant  forms  which  we  come 
to  expect  from  the  mature  Giorgione.  But  the 
delight  in  colour  is  already  apparent  and  the  taste 
for  delicate  combinations  of  tints.  There  is  also 
evidence  in  these  boyish  pictures  of  at  least  a 
dormant  instinct  for  unity  of  effect.  Walter 
Pater  pointed  out  that  two  impressions  must 
have  been  stamped  on  the  sensitive  plate  of 
Leonardo's  brain  in  childhood,  the  smiling  of 
women  and  the  undercurrent  of  streams.  Of 
Giorgione  he  might  have  hazarded  another  flash 
of  thought;  that  in  his  early  years  he  learned  to 
love  the  magic  of  evening  light  and  the  gleam 
of  polished  and  reflecting  surfaces  such  as  marble, 


<     ii' 


i: 


GIORGIONE 


247 


armour  and  still  water.  In  these  precocious 
achievements,  too,  we  apprehend  amid  the  imma- 
turities and  technical  imperfections  the  force  of  a 
genius  eager  for  innovation.  In  Bellini's  allegory 
of  the  Tree  of  Life  the  landscape  is  more  impor- 
tant than  the  figures.  The  pupil  only  needed 
this  example  to  inspire  him  to  further  emancipa- 
tion from  the  restraints  of  tradition.  He  selected 
biblical  episodes  th^t  could  be  treated  with  ro- 
mantic fervour.  Instead  of  the  constrained 
presence  of  Bellini's  compulsory  saints  we  behold 
a  fascinating  glimpse  of  the  brilliant  country  life 
of  the  Quattrocento. 

Other  Italian  and  Flemish  painters  before 
Giorgione  had  looked  to  the  many-sided,  many- 
coloured  life  about  them  for  their  pictorial  repre- 
sentations, but  never  with  a  thought  of  making 
landscape  and  light,  colour  and  form,  symbolically 
expressive  of  personal  emotions.  When  in  look- 
ing at  a  beautiful  thing  our  pleasure  is  for  the 
first  time  stimulated,  less  by  interest  in  the  object 
itself  than  by  our  impression  of  its  beauty,  then 
we  have  passed  from  the  merely  receptive  to  the 
appreciative  stage  of  observation.  Our  eyes  mean 
something  to  the  world  because  the  visible  world 
means  something  to  us.  We  have  developed 
taste.  We  have  begun  to  discriminate.  It  is 
only  when  a  painter  is  endowed  with  at  least  a 
measure  of  this  appreciative  point  of  view  that 
his  creation  can  be  called  a  work  of  art.  The 
significant    thing    about    Giorgione    is    that    His 


•iil 


V     I 


I 


/■! 


It 


ih 


r 


'r 

.11 


1,  I 
»       'I 


248      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

influence  seems  to  represent  in  the  history  of 
painting  just  what  this  awakening  to  beauty 
means  in  the  life  of  the  individual.  The  Roman- 
tic Idyll  which  he  introduced  and  which  served  his 
lifelong  purpose  of  self-expression  created  a  new 
epoch  in  pictures.  In  the  palace  of  Prince 
Giovanelli  at  Venice  hangs  one  of  the  most 
epoch-making  of  these  idylls.  Although  an  early 
work  it  shows  an  amazing  mastery  of  technique 
and  glows  with  such  realistic  light  and  such  fresh 
jewelled  pigments  of  crimson,  silver,  and  green  that 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  in  its  antiquity.  Recently 
an  attempt  has  been  made  to  find  a  story  in  the 
scene  depicted.  It  is,  however,  my  firm  belief 
that  Giorgione  was  impressionist  enough  to  real- 
ize the  futility  of  story-telling  in  pictures.  His 
idylls  are  only  situations  and  moods  of  mind. 
Here  we  stand  sheltered  in  a  shadowy  corner  of  a 
quiet  wood  just  as  a  summer  storm  makes  its 
presence  felt  in  a  lightning  flash  and  the  leaves 
are  all  a-quiver  with  a  rush  of  sultry  air.  But 
undisturbed  by  the  wind  or  the  threat  of  rain, 
in  this  dim  retreat  a  young  woman  nurses  her 
babe  while  the  father  stands  on  guard.  One  feels 
like  an  intruder  so  tender  and  so  intimate  is  the 
chord  of  domestic  sentiment. 

That  delightful  critic  of  Italian  painting  Mr. 
Berenson  has  pointed  out  that  Giorgione's  tre- 
mendous vogue,  a  passion  that  created  a  voracious 
demand  for  the  Giorgionesque  article,  was  the 
natural   consequence   of  a   subconscious   craving 


ti 


GIORGIONE 


349 


among  the  Venetians  for  pleasurable  easel  pictures 
to  adorn  their  homes.  Giorgione  anticipated 
their  desire  and  at  the  same  time  awakened  them 
to  the  full  sense  of  their  need  and  satisfied  it. 
At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
representing  country  parties  in  Venetia  under  the 
guise  of  representing  biblical  episodes.  Soon  the 
bible  was  abandoned  for  classic  legends  from 
Ovid  and  Statius  and  finally  a  rustic  idyll  was 
unhesitatingly  offered  to  the  public  without  any 
literary  association  whatever.  The  landscape 
backgrounds  became  popular  and  important.  In 
them  nature  was  no  less  idealized  than  human 
nature  in  the  portraits.  Both  were  made  to 
yield  romantic  illusions,  pleasurable  sensations,  a 
quickened  love  for  the  beauty  of  the  world.  Thus 
we  find  Titian  practically  repeating  the  landscape 
of  Giorgione's  "Venus"  for  his  own  "Noli  me  Tan- 
gere"  of  the  National  Gallery  in  London.  The 
same  mellow  light  falls  across  the  thatched  eaves 
of  the  same  farm  buildings  in  the  middle  distance, 
and  in  the  same  luminous,  low-lying  valley  fall 
the  same  cloud  shadows.  But  the  magic  of  the 
"Venus"  is  the  treatment  of  line,  not  only  in  the 
long  drawn  undulations  of  the  beautiful  body, 
but  of  the  hills  and  fields  far  far  away.  I  can 
think  of  no  picture  in  the  world  so  fully  in  accord 
with  the  old  Greek  ideal  for  representative  art; 
an  art  devoted  to  serenity  of  spirit  and  to  the 
selfsufficiency  of  grace. 
Serenity,  however,  is  not  the  only  mood  for 


-•:    t 


1     t  ■ 

\    ■■ 

q      - 


^'/ 


250      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

which   this   poet   painter  divined   the   symbol  of 
expression.    There  are  two  landscape   panels  in 
the  Gallery  of  Padua  which  made  me  catch  my 
breath  with  delight.    The  sunset  reflections   upor 
the  skies  and  tree-trunks,  the  sparkling  freshness 
and   bosky   luxuriance   of  the   forest    trees,   the 
almost    fragrant    suggestion    of   atmosphere    and 
misty  distances,   all   spoke  eloquently  to  me  of 
Giorgione's  genius.    The  figures  are  extravagant 
and  crude.     Unquestionably  they  were  done  by 
inferior    craftsmen.    It   would    be    in   just    such 
commissions  as  these  panels  for  wooden  chests 
that    the    master    would    give    his    pupils    their 
chance.    The  subjects,  too,  are  incomprehensible. 
Yet  in  one  picture  I  seemed  to  feel  a  unity  of 
sentiment.     The  apparent  agitation  of  the  people 
moving  wildly  through  a  lurid  light   seemed  to 
hint    at    deeds    dark    and    strange.     It    is    that 
hushed    half-hour   when   as    the    night    descends 
mystery   flits    in    and    out    and    anything    might 
happen.    The  background  is  the  picture  and  yet 
remains  emphatically  a  background.     The  mind 
may  play  with  it  as  it  wills.     Only  the  chosen 
strain  of  a  certain  indefinite  glamour  is  suggested. 
It   is  just   this  emphasis  upon   the   background, 
this   new    importance    attached   to   the    mise   en 
scene  that  constitutes  the  character  of  romanti- 
cism  in   art.    The   romancer  is  troubled  by  no 
scruples  in  decorating  the  truth  with  a  mosaic  of 
colours  and   an  arabesque  of  lines   that   at   least 
symbolize  the  haunting  pattern  of  his  own  dream. 


■  I 

i 


^^^Tk 


GIORGIONE  2SI 

It  is  his  -(.rpose  not  to  instruct  the  mind  and 
spirit  but  to  delight  both  mind  and 
If  he  finds  romantic 
the  visible  world   so 
If  not,  then  he  will 


elevate  i 

spirit  thi    .jh  the  senses, 
material   tor   his  fancy   in 
much  the  better  for  him. 


close  his  eyes  and  tell  himself  fairy  tales.    Now- 
a-days  we  know  the  romance  of  reality.    Nature 
has   come   into   her   own,    and   landscape   is   no 
longer  merely  a  tapestry  background  imbued  with 
romantic   suggestion.     By   uniting   their   impres- 
sions  of  glamour   and   truth,   Corot   with   lyric 
grace  and  Millet  with  epic  force  have  sung  the 
union  of  nature  and  the  heart  of  man,  employing 
the   most  familiar  of  observations  and  the  most 
truth-telling  of  methods.    This  unity  of  mood  or 
emotion  applied  to  realism  has  only  come  in  our 
age  of  science.     But  four  centuries  ago  in  Venice 
Giorgione  knew  how  to  express  unity  of  romantic 
effect.     Four  centuries  ago  he  laid  the  foundation 
for   all   that   is   personal   and   therefore   vital   in 
modern  painting.  ,  , 

One  does  not  think  of  Giorgione  as  a  spiritual 
artist.  Across  our  minds  he  seems  to  pass  like 
a  gallant  adventurous  youth  out  of  Venetian 
legend.  And  yet  his  two  madonnas  of  Castel- 
franco  and  Madrid  have  stirred  me  not  only  with 
their  beauty  but  with  a  certain  moral  sanity  and 
sweetness.  In  these  two  altar  paintings  Giorgione 
mastered  the  problem  of  how  to  make  a  subject, 
long  hackneyed  and  conventionalized  by  tradi- 
tion,   yield    fresh    interest    and    inspiration.    He 


■1! 


:l  .'•'I 
"  I 

I 


If 


i      \ 


•i  ! 


*  I 


y,'. 


}      ! 


Iti 


;«i  ! 


252      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

realized   that   the  madonna   motif    provided   the 
artist  with  one  of  the  supreme  opportunities  of 
pictorial    expression.     Unlike    Titian,    Giorgione 
was  not   merely   a  lover  of  life  and  of  earthly 
beauty  but  a  genuinely  spiritual  man.     His  nature 
was  passionate  but  also  tender,  gaily  romantic  but 
also  deeply  reverential.    To  these  madonnas,  there- 
fore, he  brought  a  serious  mind  and  a  sympathetic, 
if  not  a  pious  spirit.     Had  the  real  beauty  of  the 
theme  been  popularly  recognized  as  the  beauty  of 
universal  motherhood  it  could  have  yielded  him  an 
infinite  variety  of  aesthetic  emotions  and  left  his 
fancy  free  to  soar.      As  it  was,  the  symbolical 
formula  for  the  subject,  dictated  by  the  church  for 
the  purpose  of  propagating  a  favorite  dogma,  was 
gladly   accepted   by   this   great   artist.     His   aim 
was  to  make  the  unreality  of  the  composition  not 
only  symbolical  but  decorative;    in  other  words, 
to    express    the    spiritual    beauty    by    means    of 
aesthetic  beauty,  evoking  the  mood  of  lofty  thought 
by  the  grace  and  sweetness  of  the  design  and  the 
almost  musical   harmony  of  the  colours.     In  the 
painting   at   Castelfranco,   the   artist   invented   a 
triangular  composition,  seating  the  madonna  on 
a  high  throne,  a  young  warrior  in  full  armour  on 
her  right,  a  cowled  and  tonsured  monk  on  her 
left.     These  figures  represent  St.  Francis  and  St. 
Liberale,  but  they  mean  more  than  that.     They 
mean  that  Christianity  depends  upon  the  knight 
errant    as   well    as   upon    the   cloistered    man   of 
prayer    and    peace.     And    the    madonna    is    not 


^1 


GIORGIONE 


253 


merely  the  mother  of  Christ.  She  is  the  mother 
of  men,  the  embodied  ideal  of  man's  tenderest 
reverence.  I  like  to  think  that  for  this  blessed 
image  Giorgione  painted  the  features  of  the 
woman  that  he  loved.  The  background  is  a 
landscape  of  exquisite  simplicity,  transfigured  by 
a  mellow,  tranquil  light,  as  of  early  morning. 
This  sentiment  of  nature,  radiant  with  fresh  life 
and  hope,  has  caused  these  people  to  withdraw, 
not  in  sadness,  but  in  fullness  of  joy,  into  the 
sanctuary  of  their  own  thoughts.  Again  in  the 
unfinished  but  beautiful  picture  at  Madrid,  the 
mother  is  pensive,  the  saints  day-dreaming. 

Too  much  emphasis  can  scarcely  be  laid  upon 
the  singularly  formative  influence  of  Giorgione's 
spirit.     His  romantic  symphonies  of  colour  and  of 
chiaroscuro  together  with  the  best  pictures  of  his 
followers  and  Titian's  glorious  "Bacchanals"  have 
undoubtedly  exerted  a  wider  influence  upon  mod- 
ern   imagination    in    painting    than    any    other 
pictures    ever    painted.     They    remain    moreover 
the  last  word  in  pure  romanticism,  greater  than 
the   magnificent    improvisations   of   Rubens,   the 
delicate  reveries  of  Watteau,  the  dramatic  visions 
of    Delacroix,   the    operatic   scenery  of    Bocklin, 
and  the  fading  fairyland  of  Matthew  Maris.     In 
their  most   subjective   moods   the   poetic   realists 
Corot,  Inness  and  Whistler  come  nearest  to  the 
spirit     of     the     Giorgionesque    idyll.     Whistler's 
portraits,  in  spite  of  their  Spanish  and  Japanese 
pedigree,   have   something   of  Venetian   chivalry 


W    1 


254       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

and  romantic  charm.  But  it  was  the  noble  mind 
of  Watts  that  seriously  conceived  tl»  thought  of 
reviving  the  emotional  portraiture  of  Giorgione 
and  of  Titian's  Giorgionesque  period.  These  Old 
Masters  did  not  merely  record  facts.  They  re- 
vealed moods.  They  fathomed  thoughts.  Gior- 
gione loved  to  paint  eyes  that  gaze  at  us  without 
seeing,  eyes  that  are  looking  back  to  some  faint 
memory  or  forward  to  some  beautiful  dream. 
Morelli  suggested  that  the  melancholy  Antonio 
Brocardo  at  Budapest  seems  ready  to  confess  to 
us  the  secret  of  his  life.  Giorgione  was  certainly 
intent  upon  the  introspective  character  of  his 
sitter,  and  it  must  have  been  in  a  mood  of  deep 
insight  into  the  grief  that  does  not  speak  that  he 
conceived  this  face  and  hand  so  poignantly  expres- 
sive of  a  troubled  spirit  craving  sympathy.  The 
kinship  of  these  Venetian  portraits  to  the  portraits 
of  Watts  in  London  must  be  apparent  to  all  serious 
students.  Look,  for  example,  at  Swinburne  in  his 
pathetic  neo-pagan  youth,  with  his  earth-red 
hair  and  sea-blue  eyes,  all  sensibility  and  yearn- 
ing.   The  spirit  of  Giorgione  is  in  that  picture. 

Morelli  startled  lovers  of  art  by  questioning 
Giorgione's  authorship  of  the  famous  "Concert"  of 
the  Pitti  Palace,  Florence,  and  ascribing  it,  on  his 
own  initiative,  to  Titian.  Berenson,  Claude 
Phillips  and  other  authorities  now  agree  with 
him.  Yet  in  what  picture  of  Titian's,  may  I 
ask,  was  ever  such  feeling  as  this  displayed? 
The   men   portrayed  by  Titian,  with   the  single 


,» I 


I 


GIORGIONE  »55 

exception  of  the  Dr.   Parma,  arc  self-contained 
and   reserved   as   in  life— not  surprised   in  un- 
guarded   moments    of    intimate    emotion.    The 
inner    life    was    Giorgione's    particular    field    of 
study.    His  pupils  could  imitate  his  chosen  sub- 
jects, as  with  creative  ardour  he  took  them  up, 
one   by   one.     But   his   spirit   they   never   could 
approach.     It  is  this  which  is  the  touchstone  — 
the  final  test  of  what  may  be  accepted  as  genu- 
inely the   conception  of  his  brain.    Crowe   and 
Cavalcaselle,   in  taking   "The   Concert"   as   the 
Giorgionesque    standard    and    formulating    their 
mould  of  the  man's  mind  and  method  in  accord- 
ance with   it,   were   nearer   the   truth   than   the 
usually   more   dependable    Morelli,   who  was   (I 
believe)  led  astray  by  a  supposed  resemblance  of 
jaw  bones,  hands  and  ears  to  certain  other  jaw 
bones,    hands    and    ears    done    by   Titian.^    The 
technique  is  most   emphatically  Giorgione's,  the 
triangular  building  up  of  the  lines,  the  arbitrary 
glow  on  the  faces,  the  favourite  colour  chord  of 
black,  orange  and  gleaming  white.     But  the  most 
positive  evidence  of  the  earlier  master's  author- 
ship is  the  emotional  rapture  of  the  music  mood. 
This  picture  might  be  named  "The  Mood  of  Music," 
that  language  which,  saying  nothing,  means  so 
much,  steeping  spirit  and  sense  in  a  drowsy  spell 
where  thought  may  wander  where  it  will  provided 
it    pass   through   the   Dreamland   Gate.    It   was 
Carlisle  who  said  that  "Music  leads  us  to  the 
edge  of  the  Infinite  to  let  us,  for  moments,  gaze." 


'"I 


V'\ 


i  'i 


1 


hi 


i 


256      THE  ENCHANTME^^^  OF  ART 

Ah  yes,  it  is  only  for  moments.    And  here  in  this 
picture  the  great  young  poet-painter  has  revealed 
the   pathos  of  that   moment,  when,  as  the  last 
chord  dies  away,  the  dream  of  the  music  lingers 
a   little   wistfully   in   the  eyes.    The   sweet,   low 
harmony  has  stilled  the  clacking  tongue  of  the 
young  worldling  with  the  plume,  and  now  behold 
him    sobered    in    the    presence   of   beauty.     But 
what  a  contrast  in  quality  the  other  faces!    The 
older  priest  has  ceased  to  play  his  viol  and  at 
the    closing    strains    of    the    clavichord    he    has 
touched    the    shoulder   of  his   friend    to    suggest 
perhaps  some   new  selection.     But   his  eyes  are 
held  with   sudden   and   respectful   wonder  as  he 
beholds  in  the  face  that  is  half  turned  to  him  a 
light  of  more  than  inspiration,  almost  of  secret 
knowledge,  as  if  indeed  this  man  had  stood  on 
the  edge  of  the  Infinite  just  for  a  moment.    It 
may   be   interpreted   as   spiritual   ecstasy,   or  as 
unsatisfied    longing,    or    as    unspoken    passion  — 
the  intensity  of  feeling  that  has  made  this  young 
monk's   face   so   eloquent.     But   whatever   it    is, 
Giorgione   has   drawn   it   forth   from   its   retreat. 
A  golden  light  has  come  into  the  dark  room  and 
cast  its  glow  over  these  music-makers.     It  is  a 
light  that  fails  to  pierce  the  surrounding  black- 
ness,  an   unearthly   light   shining  only  where   it 
wills,  from  an  inner  source.     Such  is  the  light  of 
self-revelation.     Only  in  those  rare  moments  may 
we  know  it,  when  the  soul  is  stirred  out  of  its 
lethargy,  when  the  swift,   strong  current  of  its 


GIORGIONE 


*57 


I' 

■I 


own  thrill  fuses  a  flashing  vision  in  the  eyes. 
Here  then  we  have  a  painting  that  so  far  aban- 
dons the  conventionality  of  contemporary  sub- 
jects as  to  depict  an  uneventful  moment  in  any 
life,  when  the  inner  consciousness  romantically 
responds  to  an  evanescent  influence  of  beauty 
from  without;  when  that  beauty  is  so  frail  and 
fugitive  a  thing  that  it  lingers  only  on  the  instant 
of  suspended  sound  —  to  leave  the  soul  in  another 
instant— only  a  little  richer  for  the  memory. 

But  the  masterpiece,  the  culmination  of  Gior- 
gione's  art,  is  "The  Pastoral  Symphony"  of  the 
Louvre.     Denied  him  by  Crowe  and  CavalcaseUc 
because  the  forms  were  held  to  be  of  too  free  and 
coarse  a  type,  Morelli  has  restored  the  glorious 
pastoral  to  Giorgione  and  all  critics  are  now  glad 
to   agree.    It    is    true    that    the    figures    of   the 
women    lack    the   grace    and    refined    feeling   of 
Giorgione's  earlier  nudes.    It   is   also  true   that 
Sebastiano  del  Piombo  enjoyed  just  such  robust 
peasant  types  of  beauty,  and  that  the  faces  and 
golden-brown  flesh  tones  resemble  his  Giorgion- 
esque   period.     I   consider  it,   therefore,   possible 
that  this  picture,  perhaps  the  last  work  of  the 
master,  was  left  unfinished  at  his  death,  and  was 
completed  by  Sebastiano  according  to  the  mas- 
ter's original  intention.    Certainly,  the  romantic 
conception,  the  luxurious  color,  the  inspired  land- 
scape, and  the  intricate  design,  are  not  only  the 
work  of  Giorgione  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt, 
but  represent  the  very  climax  of  his  achievement. 


f     i! 


■4     1 


I 

f  I 


4I        ! 


258      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

On  this  pleasant  upland,  this  soft  Italian  hillside, 
the  massy  verdure  of  the  forest  trees  seems  inter- 
woven, as  Pater  imagined,  with  gold  thread. 
And  the  long-lingering  sunshine  seems  to  mellow 
the  very  grass  and  soil  to  a  luxury  of  warm 
tones:  green,  straw-color  and  golden  brown. 
At  a  marble  fountain  a  wood  nymph  of  amber 
flesh  and  languorous  charms  pours  water  into  a 
basin,  listening  drowsily  to  its  tinkling  fall  as  the 
sound  of  it  mingles  with  the  sound  of  lutes  and 
viols,  that  the  crimson-clad  young  gentlemen  of 
Venice  are  wafting  upon  the  golden  air,  "in 
profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art."  This  is 
the  Land  of  Make-Believe,  eternally  young  and 
wilfully  fantastic  with  the  spirit  of  romantic 
comedy.  And  in  the  last  analysis,  this  land  was 
the  dream  of  Giorgione's  short  and  brilliant  life  — 
the  goal  of  his  xsthetic  aspiration.  For  here  at 
last  the  poet-painter  found,  for  the  strange, 
sweet  spirit  that  had  haunted  his  every  concep- 
tion, a  pictorial  symbol  as  meaningless  and  as 
exquisite  as  the  dream  of  life  itself  from  which 
he  never  wished  to  wake.  A  lover  of  music  and 
of  colour,  he  beheld  a  vision  of  the  very  mind  of 
music,  and,  while  within  its  trance,  he  composed 
a  symphony  upon  the  very  soul  of  colour.  Come 
to  my  earthly  paradise — he  seems  to  say;  to 
a  land  "where  the  air  is  always  balmy  and  the 
forest  ever  green;  where  life  is  but  a  pastime  and 
music  the  only  labour.  Come  to  my  golden  land 
and   feast   upon   beauty,   where   the   richness   of 


GIORGIONE 


259 


tones  that  thrilled  you  once  for  a  moment  shall 
be  your  portion  all  the  day;  and  the  dreams  you 
once  yearned  to  hold  shall  soothe  you  into  for- 
getting that  there  is  any  such  thing  as  passion  or 
any  such  thing  as  pain." 

I  have  said  that  "The  Pastoral  Symphony"  of 
the  Louvre  may  be  regarded  as  a  perfect  expres- 
sion of  Giorgione's  spirit.     It  is  even  more  signifi- 
cant than  that.    It  represents  the  aesthetic  ideal 
and  reflects  the  philosophic  temper  of  the  great 
Venetian  Renaissance  from  which  we  have  derived 
the  personal  impressionism  of  modern  art.     Con- 
trast   this    pastoral    with    characteristic    master- 
pieces of  Florentine  painting  at  the  same  period 
—  with  a  madonna  by  Raphael  and  a  portrait  by 
Leonardo.     Raphael's  "Madonna"  is  a  thing  of 
grace,  as  learned,  as  accomplished,  as  devoid  of 
individual  emotion,  as  a  fine  Greek  marble.     It 
is  a  creation  of  perfect  equipment  and  propor- 
tion, proceeding  from  a  wide  culture  and  a  fault- 
less sense  of  balance.     It  is  an  eclectic  asseniblage 
of  very  noble  design,  and  colour,  and  sentiment, 
and  subject.     But  no  ardour  of  imagination  has 
gone  into  its  making.    No  interest  in  the  visible 
world  has  made  it  realistic.    No  pious  revery  nor 
other-worldly  dream  has  made  it,  in  any  genuine 
sense,    religious.     No   intimation   of   ilie    elusive 
glamour  that  pervades  both  fancy  and  fact  has 
made   it,   for   so   much   as  one   bright   moment, 
romantic.     It  is  a  triumph  of  hand  and  eye,  but 
as   tenantless   of  flesh   and   blood   as   a   slab   of 


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260      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

mortuary  marble.  Leonardo's  "  Portrait,"  on  the 
other  hand,  reveals  a  creator  so  fascinated  by 
both  body  and  soul,  so  sensitive  to  the  absorbing 
interest  of  reality  and  the  elusive  glamour  of 
romance,  that  in  a  fever  of  experiment,  his  too 
intricate  genius  and  too  learned  love  of  life  have 
stimulated  the  intellect  but  only  baffled  and 
dissatisfied  the  sense  of  sight,  to  which  all  pictures 
must  primarily  appeal. 

Turning  back  then  from  either  Raphael's  Ma- 
donna or  Leonardo's    "Portrait"  to  Giorgione's 
"  Pastoral,"  we  pass  out  of  the  doors  of  Mind,  out 
of  the  temple  of  Thought,  into  the  sunbathed, 
wind-stirred  splendour  of  the  woods  and  fields  in 
summer.     At    once    we    are    conscious    of    the 
beauties  of  the  earth  and,   in  the   very  act  of 
appreciation,    we    become    aware    of    our    own 
mysteriously  sentient  personalities,  of  the  surging 
emotions  within   us  which    alone  can  make  the 
beauties  of  the  earth  worthwhile.     It  is  -vith  this 
individual  perception  of  beauty  that  the  painter 
has  to  do.     Seeking  to  perpetuate  the  thrilling 
pleasure   of   a    moment's   visual   impression — he 
seeks  to  create  a  synthesis  or  unity  of  expression. 
The  Venetians  of  the  sixteenth  century  were  the 
first  painters  to  really  comprehend  the  scope  of 
pictorial    art,    and    Giorgione,    in    his    important 
work  of  inspiring  and  inaugurating  this  new  birth 
of  aesthetic  understanding  was  the  first  modern 
master  of  the  art  of  painting. 


♦*     F  ■ 


XIV 
TINTORETTO 

AT  his  worst  Tintoretto  was  one  of  the 
most  misguided  and  unsuccessful  of 
the  Old  Masters  of  painting.  His 
mind  was  too  full  of  conceptions  that 
were  quite  beyond  the  scope  of  pictorial  art. 
Out  of  the  fire  and  fury  of  his  imagination  he 
created  a  chaos  of  coarsely  coloured  forms  and  a 
bewilderment  of  things  supernaturally  seen  and 
done.  And  yet,  at  his  best,  he  was  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  painters  that  ever  lived  and  if 
he  had  even  succeeded  half  of  the  time  in  achiev- 
ing his  exalted  aim  he  would  doubtless  be  regarded 
to-day  as  the  greatest  of  the  great.  It  was  his 
ambition  to  present  the  dramatic  visions  of  his 
dreams  with  the  power  of  Michelangelo  and  the 
charm  of  Titian.  Angelo's  modelling  of  the  human 
body  would  lend  him  the  intensity  of  emotional 
action  needful  to  the  climaxes  that  his  brain  con- 
ceived, and  Titian's  colour  would  supply  him  with 
the  required  grandeur  of  background  and  beauty  of 
speech.  Only  once  did  he  achieve  his  aim.  Usually 
he  fell  far  short  of  Titian  in  charm  and  of  Angelo 
in  power,  although  he  surpassed  them  both  in 
imagination  and  creative  ardour.  The  greatness  of 
Tintoretto's  genius  in  a  few  pictures  is  beyond  dis- 


',  i!i' 


I    \ 


!    ' 


4i':| 


!        I 


262  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
pute.  His  colour  in  these  masterpieces  seemed  im- 
bued with  identically  the  emotion  of  the  scenes 
depicted,  and  his  modelling  was  by  means  of  light 
and  shade  which  he  either  employed  plastically  for 
realizing  objects  in  the  round—  thus  anticipating 
Velasquez— or  arbitrarily  for  dramatic  effect,— 
thus  anticipating  Rembrandt.  From  the  majority 
of  his  canvases,  however,  we  turn  away  in  sad- 
ness, much  impressed  by  the  learning  and  the 
feeling  of  the  man  but  baffled  by  his  faults  of 
taste    and    the    incoherent    complexities    of    his 

themes. 

With  Tintoretto  subject  was  of  supreme  im- 
portance.   Giorgione  and  Titian— yes,  and  even 
Bellini   before    them  —  although    they  were  the 
very   men   who   created   the   romantic   spirit   in 
painting,  cared  more  for  style  than  for  subject, 
expounding  for  the  first  time  the  doctrine  of  art 
for  art's  sake.     But  in  those  days  art  was  under- 
stood to  imply  beauty,  and  technical  beauty  was 
considered   essential   to   beauty  of  subject.    By 
technical  beauty  I  do  not  mean  mere  dexterity 
and  skill  of  handling,  but  charm  of  surface,  charm 
in    the   very   textures   of  canvas   and    pigment. 
What  is  it  but  sheer  decorative  beauty  that  stirs 
us  in   Bellini's  great  "Madonna  of   the   Frari," 
Venice?    The   design   is   according   to   the   stiff, 
expressionless   Byzantine  model  of  the  Venetian 
primitives.    Yet  the  rich,  deep  colours  glow  like 
jewels  in  cathedral  light,  and  the  conventional 
altar-piece  is  a  thing  of  decorative  magic.    Now 


TINTORETTO 


263 


Tintoretto  was  a  facile  bnishman,  and  he  under- 
stood all  about  colour  and  chiaroscuro.  But  his 
mind  was,  in  a  sense,  more  literary  than  pictorial. 
He  was  chiefly  absorbed  in  representing  his  impet- 
uous dream-visions,  and  the  materials  he  chose 
were  often  snatched  up  in  such  haste  that  some- 
times we  marvel  at  his  immediate  mastery,  but 
more  often  at  his  deplorable  carelessness.  It  was 
the  subject  Tintoretto  thought  of  first  of  all,  and 
if,  in  his  best  pictures  the  technical  beauty 
seems  faultless,  we  feel  that  it  was  only  so  by 
the  happy  accident  of  his  spontaneous  inspiration. 
Tintoretto  might  have  written  great  drama. 
He  was  the  most  dramatic  of  painters.  He  did 
not  merely  set  the  stage  like  Claude  and  Turner 
and  Bocklin.  He  enacted  the  play.  His  every 
figure  was  made  to  act  its  part.  He  could 
present  a  romantic  comedy  like  the  "Venus 
Driving  away  Mars"  or  he  could  succeed  with  a 
sublime  tragedy  like  the  "Crucifixion."  Mr. 
Berenson  remarked  of  the  famous  picture  in  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco  that  it  was  full  of  the  im- 
passioned naturalism  of  a  novel  by  Tolstoi. 
"Christ  is  on  the  Cross  but  life  does  not  stop. 
Many  of  the  people  gathered  on  Calvary  are 
attending  to  their  various  duties  as  if  it  were 
only  a  common  execution.  But  all  the  while  we 
are  made  to  feel,  with  those  few  stricken  mourners, 
that  we  are  witnessing  the  greatest  event  that 
ever  took  place."  This  impression  is  conveyed 
to  us  directly.    In  spite  of  his  literary  imagina- 


N 


'i\'. 


264      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

tion,  then,  Tintoretto  must  be  judged  like  other 
painters  as  an  impressionist  who  appealed  to  the 
eye,  at  a  glance,  or  not  at  all.     When  his  dramas 
failed   they   failed    miserably   because   the   over- 
elaboration  of  the  parts  marred  the  instantaneous 
effect  of  the  whole.    When  they  succeeded  they 
veritably  triumphed  because  not  only  was  every- 
thing said  first  of  all  to  the  eye,  but  everything 
was  of  profound  interest  and  vital  stimulus  to  the 
mind  and  the  spirit  as  well.     Every  component 
part  of  the  decoration  seemed  pervaded  by  the 
same  inspiring  spirit,  the  colour  and  design  con- 
tributing to  the  thrill  of  whatever  beautiful  or 
breathless  moment  was  depicted. 

Light  is  the  chief  actor  in  most  of  Tintoretto's 
dramas.  He  caused  it  to  play  many  roles  and 
invariably  it  was  the  means  whereby  the  drama- 
tist secured  his  desired  effect.  It  is  really  true, 
a  great  painter  once  said  to  me  —  that  the 


as 


modern  belief  in  "light  as  the  life  of  everything 
it  touches"  may  be  traced  to  the  inspiring  experi- 
ments of  the  great  Venetian.  He  was  modem  in 
his  mastery  of  foreshortening,  perspective  and 
modelling  by  the  brush.  But  it  was  his  careful 
study  of  all  kinds  of  illumination  and  his  power 
to  evoke  at  will  any  of  these  schemes  of  light  as 
the  means  for  pictorially  condensing  his  dramatic 
conceptions  that  he  revealed  his  true  greatness. 
In  the  "Marriage  at  Cana"  of  S.  Maria  della 
Salute,  the  deep  perspective  of  the  great  ban- 
queting hall   is  luminous  with  the   diffusion  of 


TINTORETTO 


265 


mellow,  comfortable  daylight.  The  men  arc 
seated  in  shadow,  their  backs  to  the  sun,  which 
streams  in  across  the  table  cover  to  fall  full  upon 
the  charming  row  of  women  and  girls.  There  is 
a  pervading  sense  of  pleasure  and  well-being. 
The  sun  is  a  guest  at  the  feast  and  glad  to  shine 
in  such  good  company.  In  the  "Last  Supper" 
of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore,  what  a  different  spirit! 
Moonlight  pours  from  above  into  the  long  dark 
room,  dimly  lit  by  a  swinging  lamp  that  smokes. 
High  above  the  table  —  up  among  the  rafters,  a 
host  of  otherworldly  visitants  swoops  in  whirling 
flight.  Meanwhile  the  disciples  are  eating, 
drinking,  talking,  all  intensely  excited  by  the 
supernatural  forces,  the  presence  of  which  they 
feel  but  do  not  as  yet  perceive.  And  the  eye  is 
focussed  at  once  on  the  magnetic  Christ,  moving 
with  nervous  haste  and  passionate  tenderness 
among  his  followers,  serving  and  admonishing 
them  for  the  last  time.  The  mental  agitation 
that  is  here  so  subtly  suggested  is  given  pictorial 
synthesis  by  the  struggling  of  moonlight  with  the 
dim  and  gusty  lamplight  and  the  cloud  of  dense, 
mysterious  darkness  overhead.  The  canvas  is 
now  so  black  that  only  the  thought  remains. 
Yet  the  decorative  imagination  is  still  so  potent 
as  an  emotional  agency  that  the  emotions  are 
deeply  stirred  and  the  inclination  to  be  hyper- 
critical is  put  to  sleep.  The  best  preserved 
perhaps  of  Tintoretto's  pictures  is  the  "Venus 
Driving  away  Mars"  of  the  Ducal  Palace.      Here 


u 

i'  ■ 


! 

) 


\    "i 


in 


•r    • 


)      i 


,)''i 


266      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  decorative  scheme  is  one  of  romantic  glamour 
that  soothes  rather  than  excites  the  spirit.  A 
lovely  light  that  glows  on  the  flesh  of  deliciously 
rounded  arms  and  knees  is  in  itself  a  serene  and 
unpremeditated  song  of  joy.  And  the  design  is 
one  with  the  cool  and  radiant  colours  —  a  refresh- 
ment and  an  exhilaration.  How  supple  and 
strong  and  at  the  same  time  sensitively  feminine 
is  the  action  of  the  enchanting  Athene  as  she 
repels  the  advances  of  the  insolent  War  God! 
There  have  been  few  finer  tributes  to  the  power  of 
noble  womanhood. 

But  Tintoretto's  masterpiece  —  the  greatest 
picture  of  the  Venetian  Renaissance  is  the  "Mira- 
cle of  St.  Mark"  at  the  Venice  Academy.  It  is, 
if  you  will,  a  story-telling  picture.  But  you  do 
not  need  to  know  the  story  nor  even  the  title  to 
enjoy  and  understand  the  essentials.  The  scene 
explains  itself,  and  at  a  glance.  A  thunderbolt  in 
human  form  has  descended  from  heaven  and 
shattered  the  sword  of  the  executioner  just  as  his 
blow  was  about  to  fall.  The  crowd  surges  around 
him  as  he  raises  the  broken  fragments  for  the 
judge  to  see,  calling  upon  all  to  witness  that  a 
miracle  has  taken  place.  Terrific  is  the  moment's 
excitement.  The  sun  shines  with  passionate  glow, 
as  only  the  sun  can  shine  when  the  minds  of  men 
are  intent  upon  the  glow  of  their  own  passions. 
And  the  colours  partake  of  the  intense  life  of  the 
moment.  Each  one  is  a  separate  thrill  and  all 
together,  fused  in  golden  air,  they  vibrate  and 


)>■  f 


TINTORETTO 


267 


resound.  Such  is  life's  drama  at  its  moments  of 
climax.  The  particular  incident  is  of  compara- 
tive unimportance  in  relation  to  all  that  has  been 
and  all  that  will  be.  But  for  the  space  of  a 
moment,  to  the  actors  in  the  scene,  it  is  all  in  all. 
The  mind  has  no  time  to  think  of  consequences 
and  significances.  The  eye  has  no  time  to  note 
details.  The  emotions  alone  are  in  command.  It 
is  in  such  moments  that  a  great  painter  like  Tinto- 
retto, smitten  by  a  thunderbolt  of  spontaneous  in- 
spiration so  as  to  himself  partake  of  the  imagined 
emotions,  can  even  better  pri^sent  the  moment,  and 
all  that  it  means,  than  the  author  whose  words 
are  without  light  and  without  colour  and  form. 
Endowed  in  this  instance  with  a  power  of  lighting, 
colouring,  drawing,  modelling,  all  employed  for  a 
single  purpose  of  emotional  expression,  and  exe- 
cuted apparently  at  lightning  speed  and  with  in- 
spired economy  of  effort,  Tintoretto's  picture  is 
indeed  a  miracle,  but  in  no  ecclesiastical  sense. 
Rather  is  it  a  miracle  of  mood  —  the  mood  of 
decorative  imagination — and  a  miracle  of  art  — 
the  art  of  personal  impressionism. 


%  \ 


I: 


t  .1  I 


XV 

SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY 

THE  Irish  dramatist,  J.  M.  Synge,  in  the 
preface  to  his  plays  wrote  the  follow- 
ing significant  lines  upon  the  character 
of  his  own  art:  "Richness  in  modern 
literature  is  found  chiefly  in  sonnets  or  prose 
poems  or  in  one  or  two  elaborate  books  (doubtless 
Walter  Pater's)  very  far  from  the  profound  and 
common  interests  of  life.  On  the  stage  one  must 
have  reality,  but  one  must  also  have  beauty,  not 
Ibsen's  and  Zola's  reality  of  joyless,  pallid  words. 
...  In  a  good  play,  every  speech  should  be  as 
fully  flavoured  as  a  nut  or  an  apple,  and  such 
speeches  cannot  be  written  by  anyone  who  works 
among  people  that  have  shut  their  lips  on  poetry. 
Now  in  Ireland,  for  a  few  years  more,  we  have  a 
popular  imagination,  fiery  and  tender,  so  that 
those  of  us  who  wish  to  write  start  with  a  chance 
not  given  to  writers  in  places  where  the  spring- 
time of  the  local  life  has  been  forgotten  and  the 
harvest  is  a  memory  only."  It  was  certainly 
exceptional  good  fortune  for  Mr.  Synge  to  find  an 
untamed,  unspoiled  corner  of  his  own  land  where 
the  imagination  of  the  people  and  the  language 
they  use  remain  so  rich  and  living  that  it  was 
possible  for  him,  as  dramatist  of  their  life,  to  be 


)' 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY 


269 


sumptuously  copious  in  his  words  and  thus  able 
to  express  it  once  poetry  and  reality  in  a  natural 
form  uniquely  compounded  of  both  the  decorative 
and  the  representative  elements  of  his  art. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  all 
romance  has  gone  out  of  reality,  simply  because 
most  people  have,  in  their  daily  speech  "shut 
their  lips  on  poetry"  and  become  too  grown-up 
and  self  conscious  to  retain  their  primitive  sense 
of  humour  and  of  wonder,  their  rough,  elemental 
eloquence  of  fancy  and  phrase.  The  richness 
which  Synge  sought  for  as  the  essential  quality 
in  drama,  is  not  after  all  a  strange  beauty  which 
can  only  be  reflected  in  art  when  it  is  outwardly 
visible  in  life.  It  is  a  mood  of  mind,  a  poten- 
tiality of  decorative  imagination,  a  spirit  of 
romantic  comedy  which  all  of  us  may  keep  fresh 
and  fair  in  our  own  lives,  provided  that  we  are 
sufficiently  young  at  heart  to  be  unsatisfied  with 
realities  that  are  "joyless  and  pallid"  and  eager 
for  the  realities  that  are  "rich  and  wild." 

In  the  days  of  mediaeval  chivalry  in  Europe,  in 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  of  Italy,  in 
the  Elizabethan  Age  of  England,  richness  of  spirit 
was  a  heritage  of  all  the  people  and  consequently 
these  phases  of  the  world's  drama  are  vividly 
imagined.  And  yet  the  Elizabethans  did  not 
talk  blank  verse.  In  discussing  their  affairs  and 
expressing  their  opinions  they  had  "shut  their 
lips  on  poetry"  even  as  we  have  to-day.  In 
converting   the   quite   commonplace   language   of 


t 


t    t 


' '  I 


270      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

the  street  into  rich  and  resounding  rhythms  for 
the  theatre,  Shakespeare  did  not  for  a  moment 
believe  that  he  was  falsifying  his  expression  of 
reality,  but  rather  that  he  was  expressing  infi- 
nitely more  than  the  average  man  was  capable  of 
expressing  for  himself.  The  Shakespearian  phil- 
osophy did  not  think  of  art  as  synonomous  with 
life  nor  as  a  substitute  for  it,  but  as  something 
that  is  meant  to  celebrate  it  and  enrich  it,  a 
magic  to  lift  thought,  speech  and  action  beyond 
the  level  of  every  day.  Shakespearian  realism 
was  not  made  to  copy  life  but  to  interpret  it; 
not  essentially  to  report  upon  things  as  they  are 
but  upon  things  as  they  may  be  in  the  exceptional 
moments,  as  they  would  be  if  our  personal  trag- 
edies were  always  moving  to  sublime  and  soul- 
satisfying  climaxes,  and  if  our  romantic  comedies 
were  always  as  beautiful  as  our  hearts  desired. 
It  was  not  merely  the  truth  of  life  then  that 
Shakespeare  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  his  immor- 
tal dramas,  but  the  intensity  of  its  emotional 
experiences,  the  heights  and  depths  of  its  dreams 
and  aspirations,  the  contrasts  of  its  colours,  and 
the  light  and  shade  of  its  characters,  the  reality 
that  is  the  foundation  for  all  romance  and  the 
romance  that  is  the  significant  part  of  all  reality. 
The  richness  of  life  that  Synge  desired,  is  perhaps 
best  described  to  those  who  love  Shakespeare  as 
Shakespearian.  We  do  not  need  to  discover,  as 
did  Mr.  Synge,  such  wild  corners  of  the  earth  as 
county  Wicklow  and  the  Aran  Islands  in  order  to 


I'' 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  271 

create  it  afresh.  All  we  need  to  do  is  to  try  to 
live  up  to  Shakespeare  and  his  love  of  life  as 
spectacle  and  story. 

It  is  regarded  as  heresy  now,  and  I  suppose  i*- 
always  will  be,  to  question  Ben  Jonson's  prophecy 
that  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  is  not  of  any  one 
age  but  for  all  time.  Nevertheless  it  would  be 
quite  hypocritical  to  deny  that  we  to-day  have 
outgrown  Shakespeare,  having  almost  attained 
to  the  stature  of  G.  Bernard  Shaw.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  although  humanity  speaks  through  him 
now  and  forever,  Shakespeare  was  pre-eminently 
a  man  of  his  own  age  —  and  race.  He  wrote 
for  the  Elizabethan  stage,  with  as  much  regard 
for  the  local  and  topical  interests  as  David 
Belasco  for  the  seasonable  thing  on  Broadway. 
His  audiences  wanted  romance,  and  low  comedy 
and  historical  tragedy,  with  plenty  of  courts  and 
camps  and  kings  and  clowns.  That  his  plays 
were  works  of  matchless  genius,  only  a  few 
intimates  like  Ben  Jonson  could  perceive.  He 
was  simply  regarded  as  a  successful  playwright, 
the  best  perhaps  of  the  scribblers  who  supplied 
the  required  theatrical  entertainment.  Shakes- 
peare inaugurated  no  new  epoch.  Rather  was 
he  the  culmination,  not  onlj'  of  poetic  drama  in 
England,  but  of  art  in  Europe.  He  was  the 
climax  of  the  aesthetic  movement  that  began  with 
painting  and  sculpture  in  Italy.  But  whereas 
the  Italian  genius  best  expressed  its  sense  of  life's 
romantic  glamour  in  the  plastic  arts,  the  English 


v.  \ 


:i 


i!     . 


1,1    "  i 


V  ■      1 


(i,  i 


272      THE  ENCHANTMENT  Ut   ART 

mind  found  its  natural  medium  in  poetry  and 
drama.  The  Elizabethan  Age  is  not  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  isolated  wonder  of  creative  achieve- 
ment, but  as  a  final  and  culminating  phase  of  an 
international  impulse  towards  Beauty,  felt 
throughout  civilized  Europe  when  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  Greeks  was  interpreted  at  last  to  the 
modern  world  through  the  ardours  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance. 

It  was  not  the  least  of  Shakespeare's  achieve- 
ments that,  following  the  precedent  of  Marlowe, 
he  adapted  the  inspiration  of  Southern  sculpture 
and  painting  to  Northern  drama  and  poetry. 
In  his  efforts  he  was  sustained  by  the  triumphant 
British  consciousness  of  world  power  and  world 
influence.  Just  as  in  Italy,  the  divine  fire  of 
Michelangelo  and  of  Titian  was  bestowed  upon 
the  people  through  the  patronage  and  primarily 
to  satisfy  the  desires  of  the  ruling  classes,  so  the 
Elizabethan  drama  was  offered  to  the  English 
public,  but  dedicated  to  and  upheld  by  the 
aristocracy.  What  the  dramatists  of  the  period 
reflected  most  accurately  was  the  life  of  great 
men  and  their  ladies,  the  ideals  of  these  proud 
people,  their  tastes,  their  temperaments.  If  art 
had  always  been  democratic,  we  might  never  have 
known  that  Shakespearian  beauty  which  was 
anticipated  in  principle,  and  partially  formulated 
in  practice,  by  the  greater  Venetian  painters  of 
the  Quinquecento.  The  decorative  imagination 
which  made  them   great  was   the  expression  of 


Y   l.^ 


DOCTOR   PARMA 
By  Titian 


V' 


\  \ 


U    '  i 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY 


273 


the  mental  life  and  philosophy  of  a  breed  of 
powerful  men  who  believed  in  pride  of  place  and 
in  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  men  of  rank,  men  of 
action,  men  of  a  world  of  daring  deeds,  high 
passions  and  cultivated  tastes,  men  who  really 
lived  tragic  romances  and  really  relaxed  them- 
selves with  interludes  of  pastoral  comedy,  men 
for  whom  life  was  full  of  thrilling  adventures  and 
aesthetic  pleasures,  full  of  hours  vivid  with  intense 
emotions.  Art  then  was  required  to  be  the 
expression  either  of  fascinating  human  character, 
or  of  ideal  dreamfulness.  And  so  we  have  the 
romantic  portraits  and  pastorals  of  Titian  and  of 
Shakespeare. 

Titian's  "Man  with  a  Glove"  at  the  Louvre, 
Paris,  recalls  many  a  young  Shakespearian  gentle- 
man in  the  gentle  revery  of  his  eyes,  the  kindly 
but  reserved  dignity  of  his  bearing.  Shakes- 
pearian, too,  is  the  handsome  Englishman  of  the 
Pitti  Palace,  Florence,  who  gazes  at  us  with 
vacant  stare  as  if  his  thoughts  were  far  away 
dreaming  of  a  battle  or  a  woman.  And  the  Dr. 
Parma  at  Vienna  —  how  the  author  of  Hamlet 
would  have  delighted  in  his  mingling  of  determi- 
nation and  irresolution!  With  clenched  fist  and 
frank,  brave  eyes,  he  seems  to  calculate  the 
approach  of  a  crisis.  A  momentous  decision 
seems  to  hang  in  the  balance.  Shakespeare 
would  have  interpreted  his  thoughts.  Titian  left 
him  there  on  canvas,  pondering  his  problem, 
about  to  shape  his  destiny  fpr  better  or  worse. 


Iff  'I 
[-i 


ii;. 


f 


it!'' 


274      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

But  perhaps,  of  all  Titian's  portraits,  the  most 
Shakespearian  in  its  full-blooded  idealism,  is  the 
equestrian  "Charles  V"  at  the  Prado,  Madrid. 
The  landscape  backgrounds  of  all  the  Titiahs  in 
this  gallery  were  painted  with  the  same  lyrical 
enthusiasm  which  made  Shakespeare's  descrip- 
tions of  scenery  so  decorative.  The  trees  are 
gold  or  bronze  or  green,  impenetrable  in  their 
shade  or  dappled  by  the  sun,  outlined  against  the 
sky  or  nestled  in  the  valley,  according  to  their 
creator's  changing  moods,  but  always  the  very 
sap  and  strength  and  bloom  of  the  rich  earth. 
And  the  drama  of  the  clouds!  great  billowy 
bosomed  clouds  in  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the 
moving  heaven,  that  adds  its  thrill  to  the  thrill- 
ing Bacchanal;  melancholy,  sable-coloured  clouds 
that  lift  a  little  in  the  twilight,  just  to  leave  a 
space  of  reflected  glory  in  the  sky  to  harmonize 
with  the  dull  green  tones  of  the  shadowy  river- 
valley  and  with  the  dusky  armour  and  wine-dark 
trappings  of  the  old  World  Shaker,  as,  grim  and 
unconquered,  he  rides  forth  to  another  battle. 
Now  Shakespeare's  genius  for  portraiture  had  in 
it  elements  also  of  Rembrandt  and  of  Hals. 
But  whereas  these  Masters  appeal  to  us  by  reason 
of  qualities  very  emphatically  their  own,  it  is,  1 
think,  Titian's  crowning  glory  to  Anglo-Saxons, 
that  his  sense  of  the  beautiful  was  "Shake- 
spearian." 

Shakespearian   beauty    is   both    objective    and 
subjective,    both    dramatic    and    lyric,    idealism 


Uu 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  275 

transcending  reality,  the  individual  experience 
justifying  the  personal  philosophy  and  symboliz- 
ing the  universal  spectacle.  Life  itself  for  Shake- 
speare was  a  drama,  a  show  upon  which  he  could 
comment  from  his  unseen  position  in  the  wings. 
But  for  all  his  apparent  absorption  in  the  words 
and  deeds  of  others,  for  all  his  detachment  from 
his  own  stories,  he  was  usually  out  upon  the  stage 
expressing  through  one  character  or  another,  one 
mood  or  another  of  his  own  mind,  and  indulging 
his  own  desire  for  a  selected  problem  of  thought 
or  play  of  fancy.  Being  a  true  Elizabethan,  in 
other  words,  a  vigorous  English  offshoot  of  the 
European  Renaissance,  he  worshipped  efficiency 
and  idolized  men  of  action.  Yet  there  is  good 
reason  to  believe  that  he  himself  was  no  such 
man.  To  be  sure  we  have  been  told  that  his 
habits  were  practical  and  thrifty.  But  what  we 
know  of  his  outer  life  from  meagre  records,  is 
very  little  when  compared  to  what  we  know  of 
his  inner  life  from  his  dramas.  Behind  the 
supposedly  biographical  sonnets,  lurks  a  vague 
and  unpleasant  personality,  which  is  surely  a 
delusion.  But  in  the  supposedly  impersonal 
plays,  cannot  we  find  the  real  Shakespeare  most 
vividly  revealed?  Was  he  not,  in  contrasting 
one  type  of  character  with  another,  confessing 
what  he  was  and  what  he  might  have  been,  or 
would  have  liked  to  be?  Was  there  not  a  good 
deal  of  that  passion-swept  sentimentalist  Romeo 
in  his  own  temperament,  in  spite  of  the  debonair, 


1 


276      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

devil-may-care  philosophy  of  Mercutio,  which  he 
so  admired?  Was  he  not  capable,  like  Jaques,  of 
being  melancholy  amid  wholesome  country  joys, 
cultivating  a  perverse  luxury  of  mood  in  spite  of 
his  enjoyment  of  the  way  a  Touchstone's  burlesque 
could  shame  his  affectation?  Was  he  not  emulous 
of  the  strong  and  steadfast  Horatio,  being  himself 
Hamlet,  that  ineffectual  drifter  with  the  tides  of 
thought,  that  sweet  dreamer  of  profound  dreams, 
bewildered  by  a  world  of  ill-considered  action? 
Was  he  not,  most  of  all,  that  master  of  enchant- 
ment, Prospero,  with  his  child  of  art  on  his  lonely 
island,  attended  by  servants  of  earth  and  air,  of 
sense  and  spirit,  Nature  yielding  him  at  the  last 
her  innermost  secrets?  To  me  at  least  it  seems 
that  the  man  Shakespeare  is  a  composite  of  these 
characters  of  his  own  creation.  And  the  Shake- 
spearian world,  it  is  our  real  world  dramatized 
with  infinite  truth  but  enlarged  and  intensified 
beyond  mere  powers  of  observation  through  a 
witchery  of  decorative  imagination,  and  through  a 
very  lyrical  self-expression. 

But,  however  disputable  my  contention  that 
there  is  a  vein  of  personal  sentiment  and  philoso- 
phy underlying  Shakespeare's  profound  studies  of 
cliaracter,  we  must  all  recognize  the  lyrical 
quality  of  "decorative  imagination"  which  the 
dramatist  deliberately  put  on  like  a  costume  when 
he  refreshed  himself  with  the  composition  of  a 
fantastic  farce  or  a  romantic  comedy.  These 
lyrical  plays  are  not  true  to  life.     They  contain 


H  iu 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  277 

instead    of    deep    thought,    thistle-down    fancy, 
instead   of  subtle   sense,   the   most   irresponsible 
nonsense.     Occasionally  in  the  tragedies   Shake- 
speare introduced  scenes  and  characters  of  low 
comedy.     These   were    intended    not   only    as    a 
relief  from  the  tension  of  profound  emotions,  but 
also  in  order  to  accentuate  the  life  likeness.     In 
real  life  we  all  know  the  jangling  of  the  sublime 
and  the   ridiculous.     Protected   by  his  own  fine 
sense    of   fitness    and    proportion,    Shakespeare's 
comic  digressions  were  actually  made  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  tonal  scheme  of  tragic  plays.     Polo- 
nius,  for  instance,  gives  Hamlet  splendid  oppor- 
tunity   for   puncturing    the    bladder   of   worldly 
wisdom   and   the   First   Grave   Digger  adds  just 
that  gargoyle  of  leering  familiarity  with  Death 
which  reveals  by  contrast  the  spiritual  beauty  of 
Hamlet's    sensitive   soul.     But    such   a   farce   as 
"The  Taming  of  the  Shrew"  and  such  a  pastoral 
as  "As  you  Like  it"  are  unashamed  to  be  sub- 
limely   ridiculous    and    ridiculously    sublime.     A 
dramatist    takes    the    same    delight    in    provid- 
ing   good    action    or    "stage    business"    as    the 
painter  in  his  brushwork  of  "handling."     When 
acted    by    such   a    master    of   the    fantastic    as 
Otis  Skinner,  Petruchio,  the  benevolent  bully,  is 
a   positively   exhilarating   person   to  watch,  just 
as  it  is  exhilarating  to   mark   the  incisive  sabre- 
strokes    of   that    Petruchio    of    painting,    Frans 
Hals,  in  his  genial  introduction  of  a  "Laughing 
Cavalier."     As    for    Touchstone,    I    dote     upon 


I 

■  ft! 


278       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

that  precious  fool.  He  burlesques  the  pessimism 
of  Jaques,  and  Jaques,  overhearing,  chuckles 
"for  an  hour  by  the  dial"  "that  fools  should 
be  so  deep  contemplative"  as  to  catch  him 
grinning  behind  his  melancholy  mask.  And  so 
he  is  "ambitious  for  a  motley  coat"  invested 
with  which  he  would  "purge  the  foul  body  of  the 
infected  world."  When  the  philosopher  exclaims 
"Motley's  the  only  wear,"  it  is  not  only  Jaques, 
but  Shakespeare  himself  who  is  speaking.  In 
other  delicious  scenes  Touchstone,  to  his  own 
boundless  delight,  parodies  the  contagion  of  love- 
sickness  that  overtakes  everyone  in  the  enchanted 
forest  where  "'neath  the  shade  of  melancholy 
boughs"  the  hours  are  only  measured  by  content- 
ment and  by  whimsical  fanciful  idleness. 

Shakespeare's  romantic  comedies  are  the  per- 
fection of  lyrical  and  they  are  the  perfection  of 
pictorial  dramas.  It  is  the  underlying  function 
of  expressing  a  single  idea  or  emotion,  and  of 
producing  a  single  tonality  of  effect,  that  makes 
all  good  pictures  and  all  good  lyrics  impression- 
istic, and  in  this  sense  "As  you  Like  it"  and 
"Twelfth  Night"  and  "Much  Ado  about  Noth- 
ing" are  the  earliest  triumphs  of  hterary  im- 
pressionism. These  dreams  of  young  love  and 
nonsense  and  mellow  calm  philosophy,  with  their 
backgrounds  of  sun-flecked  forest  depths  and 
moonlit  palace  gardens,  are  of  the  same  stuff  that 
songs  and  pictures  are  made  of.  They  express 
single  moods  by  means  of  blended  harmonies  of 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  279 

sense  and  sight  and  sound.    We  modems  would 
dispense   with   a   good    many   scenes   of  inferior 
quality  and  thereby  emphasize  the  beauty  of  the 
whole.     But  we  must  remember  that  Shakespeare 
was    writing    for    an    amusement-seeking    crowd 
which  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  ajsthetic  value  of 
synthesis.     It   is   all   the   more   eloquent   of  the 
lyrical  unity  of  mood  and  the  decorative  harmony 
of  tone,  that  in  the  best  of  Shakespearian  per- 
formances these  essential  qualities  have  their  way 
with  us  in  spite  of  the  many  imperfections,  leav- 
ing upon  our  minds  exactly  the  sense  of  beauty 
induced  by  the  master's  art  at  its  most  perfect 
moment : 

"Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither." 
Conie  to  the  glowing  heart  of  Nature  to  hear  it 
pulsing,  where  we  who  are  lovers  may  have  our 
fill  of  the  fond  familiar  sentiment,  and  we  who 
are  jesters  may  laugh  the  hours  away  and  from 
sheer  gladness  of  heart,  and  we  who  are  athletes 
may  delight  in  sports  that  test  us,  and  we  who 
are  musical   may  sing  in  chorus  till  the  wood? 
resound,  and  we  who  have  seen  too  much  and 
thought  too  much  and  grown  a-weary  with  over- 
much experience,  may  indulge  ourselves  with  sad 
philosophy,    secretly   glad    that   on   a    summer's 
day  life  is  so  simple  and  so  sweet.     Passions  at 


w 


y  r 
I 


p 


I  t 

;      i 

•    i 


h    ;' 


J;: 


280      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

rest,  cares  that  we  may  forget,  entertainment 
and  colour  and  music  and  sentiment  for  us  all, 
each  As  We  Like  It  —  surely  out  of  his  largess 
the  Enchanter  has  created  a  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire. 

Essentially  then  Shakespeare's  romantic  com- 
edies were  pictorial  and  musical.  Not  only  did 
his  moods  put  on  colour  and  form  but  they  also 
burst  into  rhythm  and  melody.  The  stories  were 
charming  in  their  way,  but  they  were  never 
seriously  considered;  in  no  sense  the  significant 
part  of  the  creations.  For  the  dramatist's  own 
estimate  of  their  relative  unimportance  recall  the 
titles,  "As  you  Like  it,"  "Twelfth  Night  "or  "As  you 
Will,"  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing."  The  fact  was 
that  Shakespeare  usually  built  the  framework  for 
his  treasures  of  decorative  imagination  out  of  the 
incidents  and  situations  he  found  in  trashy  English 
poems  and  Italian  novels.  Sentiment  on  the  other 
hand  was,  in  his  romantic  comedies,  the  one  thing 
of  supreme^importance.  But  it  was  a  sentiment 
compounded  of  (i)  a  delight  in  the  character  of 
concrete  images,  lovely  or  grotesque;  in  short,  a 
pictorial  sentiment,  and  (2)  a  delight  in  yielding 
to  the  impulse  of  song;  in  other  words  a  natural 
birdlike  sort  of  a  sentiment.  And  these  delights 
were  really  identical.  The  songs  are  pictures, 
vividly  sketching  for  us  the  greenwood  tree  at 
the  heart  of  summer  or  the  fairy  couching  in  the 
cowslip's  bell.  So  also  are  the  pictures  musical. 
The  closing  garden  scene  of  "The   Merchant  of 


r 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  281 

Venice"  enthralls  our  senses  with  this  double  charm. 
When  Lorenzo  whispers  to  his  Jessica: 
"How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank," 
we  do  not   need   the   chemical   and   mechanical 
illusions    of    modern    stagecraft    to    create    the 
magic    atmosphere    for    a    night    of   love.    The 
picture  is  flashed  to  us  in  a  phrase  —  a  quality  of 
genius  that  anticipates  the  modern  word-painting 
of  Stevenson,   Meredith  and  James.     When  Lo- 
renzo  sighs    for  the  wafted  harmonies  that  jthe 
night  air  breathes,  we  do  not  need  any  orchestral 
accompaniment  of  low  music.    There  is  all  we 
need  of  music,  and  all  we  can  bear  of  moonlight 
in  the  harmony  of  his  own  words. 

It  is,  however,  the  glory  of  Shakespeare's  plays 
that  although  they  may  be  in  spirit  r      -s  and 
pictures,  they  remain  in  substance  fund,     entally 
and  unmistakably  plays.    The  trouble  with  con- 
temporary   drama    is    its    inability    to    be    both 
dramatic  and  lyrical.     If  it  is  our  luck  to  dis- 
cover a  play  that  is  truly  dramatic,  it  will  be 
insufficiently  lyrical,  and,  if  lyrical,  then  insuffi- 
ciently dramatic.    The  romantic  dramas  of  W. 
B.  Yeats  are  to  a  certain  extent  Shakespearian 
in  that  they  are  at  once  musical,  pictorial  and 
cast    in    a    dramatic    mould.     But    Yeats    is    a 
symbolist  which  Shakespeare  never  was.     If  we 
read  "The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire"  with  a  recep- 
tive mind,  putting  ourselves  in  sympathy  with  an 
untaught,  imaginative  people  for  whom    Elfland 
is  never  far  away,  even  as  Shakespeare  did  when 


!• 


!  i 


i|. 


282      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

he  created  Puck  for  the  Elizabethan  public,  we 
will  be  deeply  impressed  with  just  the  emotions 
the  poet  wished  to  rouse.  We  will  be  haunted 
by  visions  of  Irish  faces  round  the  fire,  and 
autumn  winds  without,  of  silver  starlit  streams 
and  the  dance  of  the  white  feet  of  fairies.  But 
there  is  no  solid  foundation  in  such  a  play,  as 
even  the  most  fantastic  of  Shakespeare's  dreams 
may  rest  upon.  It  is  not  the  romance  of  life's 
reality  which  we  feel  but  just  the  reality  of  the 
romantic  spirit  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Yeats. 

Far  otherwise  it  is  with  the  dramatic  tone 
poems  of  J.  M.  Synge,  a  man  whose  conception 
of  art  was  thoroughly  Shakespearian.  Synge 
tells  us  that  he  wrote  down  nothing  that  he  had 
not  actually  heard  the  Irish  peasants  say.  It 
was  his  art  to  recognize  the  dramatic  and  aesthetic 
opportunities  that  came  to  his  hand  and  to  select 
and  emphasize  them  by  means  of  his  decorative 
imagination.  A  recent  biographer  has  written  of 
Synge  that  "art  for  him  was  always  an  expression 
of  life,  but  not  keyed  down  to  the  low  pitch 
convenient  for  those  who  live  in  the  narrow 
streets  of  civilization,  rather  of  life  superb  and 
wild.  He  would  have  approved  of  Gissing's 
definition  of  art  as  "the  expression  of  the  ust  of 
living,"  the  quality  which  nourishes  the  imagina- 
tion by  giving  it  food  richer  than  the  fare  of 
ordinary  experience."  One  has  always  imagined 
Shakespeare  going  attentively  about  Stratford  or 
the   streets  of  London   taking  notes,   here  of  a 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  283 

striking  phase,  there  of  a  sal-ent  trait  of  character 
sufficiently   vivid    for   the   emphatic   life   of  the 
stage.     To-day  the  stuff  of  drama  is  not  so  ready 
at  hand  as  it  was  in  Shakespeare's  time.     Our 
vitality  seems  lower;  we  are  prone  to  think  about 
life  mstead  of  living  it,  so  that  artists  are  inclined 
to  deal  with  special  problems  rather  than  with 
life,  just   as  spectacle  or  story.     Then   too,  our 
language  has  deteriorated.     The  rift  has  widened 
between  literature  and  talk.    And  so  Synge  had 
to  go  to  the  Aran  Islands  and  to  Connemara  and 
Wicklow   in    order    to    find    that    impulsive   elo- 
quence  and  elemental  frankness  which  he  thought 
essential  to  the  drama  which  may  combine  reality 
and  romai..   .     One  must  turn  back  to  the  great 
scene  where  the  afflicted  Lear  and  his  dear  Fool 
suffer   together    on    the    storm-swept    heath   for 
analogy  to  the  poignant  pathos  of  Synge's  "Riders 
to  the  Sea."    In  the  pitiful  calm  that  comes  with 
the  completion  of  her  anguish,  the  old  mother  of 
lost  fishermen  attains  to  that  terrible  lone  summit 
above  the  storms  of  fate  where  it  feels  good  to 
watch  and  worry  and  weep  no  more.     Love  is  a 
torment.     "Sure  and  no  man  at  all  can  be  living 
for  ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied."     The  fatal- 
ism of  the  pagan  world  is  in  this  tragedy  and  a 
certain  richness  of  colour  too,  curiously  wrought  out 
of  darkness  by  sheer  decorative  imagination.     For 
the  romance  of  reality  may  be  found  in  its  most 
undeniable    manifestation   in   the   Valley   of  the 
Shadow  of  Death. 


•;i 


i    '  i 


284      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Big  as  it  was  in  conception  and  execution,  the 
theme  of  uncivilized  Ireland  was  too  narrow  to 
yield    Synge    perpetual    inspiration.     Before    he 
died,  he  had  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  retelling 
of  old  Gaelic  tales,  and  sooner  or  later  he  would 
have  returned  to  the  modernity  of  which  he  was 
so  interesting  a  part,   refreshed  for  new  appre- 
hensions   of    the    richness    that   exists    even    in 
modern  city  life  if  eyes  know  how  to  see.     Per- 
haps the  most  Shakespearian  of  living  poets  is 
Alfred    Noyes.     His    latest    volume    is    entitled 
"Tales  of  The  Mermaid  Tavern."    Walking  down 
Fleet  Street  in  a  sunset  fog,  which  makes  grey 
London  glow  like  a  "huge  cobwebbed  flagon  of 
old    wine,"    he    suddenly   remembers    that    three 
hundred   years   ago  he   was  a   call   boy  at   The 
Mermaid  when  Shakespeare,  Jonson  and  Marlowe 
were  revelling  in  its  rooms.     Mr.  Noyes  is  a  true 
enough  Elizabethan  at  heart  to  re-create  the  age 
very    vividly.     Noyes    has    just    the    instinctive 
quality   of   song   which    so   refreshes    us    in    the 
Elizabethan  song  books  and  in   Herrick's  "Hes- 
perides."    On  a  May  morning,  just  at  daybreak 
a  rout  of  morrice-dancers  come  gambolling  East- 
cheape  way  and  skip   with  frolic  feet   into  the 
Mermaid  Tavern.    There  is  a   Fool  jingling  his 
bells,    and    bouncing    his    bladder.     For    every 
Robin  Hood  there  is  a  Marian,  "coloured  like  the 
dawn  and  fragrant  of  the  greenwood  whence  she 
came."    Of  course  the  merry  company  order  their 
tankards  of  nut  brown  ale  and  their  tarts  with 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  285 

clotted  cream  and  then  the  Fool  relates  how,  with 
a  barefoot  milk-maid,  he  danced  a-down  a  country 
lane  thrilling  to  the  adventure.  At  last  away 
they  go  to  another  place  where,  on  May-day 
morn,  they  hold  high  revel,  and  as  they  vanish 
we  hear  their  lusty  voices: 

"Out  of  the  woods  we  dance  and  sing 
Under  the  morning  star  of  Spring, 
Into  the  town  with  our  fresh  boughs, 
And  knock  on  every  sleeping  house. 
Not  sighing  and  crying 
Though  love  knows  no  denying. 
Then  round  your  summer  Queen  and  King 
Dance,  young  lovers,  dance  and  sing, 
Dance  and  sing." 

Now  this  sort  of  thing  must  be  well  done    if 
done    at    all.     An    inferior    poet   will    invariably 
make  the  mistake  of  attempting  to  imitate  the 
very  letter  of  an  old  time  literary  style  instead  of 
bemg  content  to  suggest  its  general  effect  on  a 
receptive  mind.    The  boy,  Chatterton,  laboriously 
imitated  the  script  on  the  crinkly  yellow  parch- 
ment he  found  in  an  old  chest,  hoping  that  by 
familiarizing   himself  with   its   archaic   substance 
he  might  produce  on  his  own  account  something 
of  that   Gothic   richness   which   his   imagination 
craved.    The  result  of  his  efforts  was  futile  and 
m  the  end  tragic.     Now  Keats  was  deeply  moved 
by  a  kmdred   impulse  to  express  the   romantic 
richness,   but   he  did   not  attempt  to  reproduce 
Oothic  materials  but   to  create  once   more   the 


■'    I 


i 


-K-    j' 


f  1      - 

'  ''    ■  f 


286       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

thrill  of  Gothic  glamour  putting  himself  into  the 
spirit  of  middle-age  romance,  even  as  Shakespeare 
had  assumed  the  spirit  of  Caesar's  Rome  and 
Falstaff's  London  and  Shylock's  Rialto.  Alfred 
Noyes,  in  his  songs  and  pictures  of  the  Mermaid 
Tavern,  inherits  the  detached  Shakespearian  ap- 
preciation of  the  richness  of  effect  obtainable  by 
means  of  the  mind's  backward  visioning.  Yet 
he  knows  too  that,  however  congenial  it  may  be 
in  the  pleasant  modern  fashion  to  be  a  "hoarder 
of  old  lore,"  a  "gleaner  after  time,"  the  decora- 
tive impulse  in  the  heart  of  man  is  no  more 
concerned  with  the  long  ago  t>an  with  the  here 
and  now.  It  is  obeying  this  decorative  impulse 
that  the  imagination  goes  high-hearted  on  its 
way,  loving  life  all  the  better  for  cherishing  its 
own  inward  existence.  Mr.  Noyes'  poem  "The 
Barrel  Organ  "  expresses  the  glimmering  conscious- 
ness of  this  dream-quality  in  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  all  sorts  of  people  on  London's  busiest 
streets.  It  is  spring.  The  hurdy-gurdy  rolls 
forth  a  succession  of  good  old  melodies  made 
sweet  by  association.  Who  of  us  can  resist  the 
vague  stirring,  the  swift  sharp  calling  of  the  spirit 
of  song  in  lilac  time?  I  ar-  reminded  of  Austin 
Dobson's  "Ballade  of  Prose  and  Rhyme": 

"  When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 
When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarc-st  toes, 
When  the  mind,  like  the  beard,  has  a  formal  cut. 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pafns  of  prose. 
But  whenever  the  May-blood  sti'  •  and  glows 


r 


SHAKESPEARIAN  BEAUTY  287 

And  the  young  year  draws  to  its  golden  prime, 
And  Sir  Romeo  sricks  in  his  ear  a  rose, 
Then  hey  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme. 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant  strut 
In  a  changing  quarrel  of  ayes  and  noes. 
In  a  starched  procession  of  If  and  But, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose. 
But  whenever  a  soft  glance  softer  grows. 
And  the  light  hours  dance  to  the  trysring  rime 
And  the  secret  is  told  that  no  one  knows. 
Then  hey  for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme." 
Now,  Mr.  Dobson  did  not  mean  literally  Prose 
and  Rhyme,  but  the  spirit  of  Common  Sense   as 
opposed  to  the  spirit  of  Decorative  Imagination- 
the  regard  for  the  Truth,  the  whole  Truth  and 
nothmg  but  the  Truth,  as  opposed  to  the  craving 
only  for  the   Beauty  of  Truth;    the  pallid  and 
joyless  reality  of  Ibsen  as  opposed  to  the  sumptu- 
ous  reality  of  Shakespeare.     When  we  come  upon 
pictures  that  seem  to  sing  to  us,  and  yet  remain 
true  to  the  laws  of  pictures,  and  lyrics  that  seem 
to  pamt  for  us  pictures,  although  remaining  true 
to  the  laws  of  language,  then  we  meet  Shakes- 
spearian  beauty  and  partake  of  that  enchantment 
that  IS  not  just  life  haphazard,  but  the  flower  of 
hfe,  the  finest  moments  of  experience,  the  colour 
or  music,  or  philosophy,  that  is,  in  itself,  emotion. 


XVI 


>•  r 


1'  n 


r.: 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE  ON 
MODERN  POETRY 

WHETHER  we  like  it  or  not  we  must  all 
agree  that  the  art  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was,  for  the  most  part, 
clever,  vivacious  and  superficial.  It 
was  an  art  neither  of  the  people  nor  for  the 
people.  With  the  passing  of  the  medieval  guilds 
the  plebeian  mind  ceased  to  count.  Literacy  re 
and  painting  were  made  to  express  the  tastes  and 
sensibilities  of  the  elite,  fastidiously  withdrawn 
from  the  shocks  of  vulgar  reality.  It  was  an  age 
of  facile  but  frivolous  culture  and  accomplish- 
ment, of  facile  but  absolutely  false  connoisseur- 
ship,  in  short  the  age  of  the  dilettante  and  his 
debonair  trifling— just  to  pass  the  time,  you 
know— the  ennui  of  superfluous  time.  The 
classics  were  quite  the  rage  but  brought  up  to 
date:  Homer  done  up  by  Mr.  Pope  in  neat  little 
parcels  of  rhymed  couplets,  and  in  France,  the 
gods  and  goddesses  of  Boucher  sporting  amorously 
on  the  walls  of  my  lady's  boudoir,  Olympian,  but 
in  name  only,  resembling  rather  the  fashionable 
pretty  creatures  that  moth-like  fluttered  to  the 
royal  flame.  Nature  also  was  much  admired  but 
not  in  its  unadorned  roughness — oh,  no,  no!  — 


hi 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE    289 
trained   of  course   in   parks  and  gardens   to  an 
eflFect   tout  a  fait  rococo  yet  simple  enough  to 
set  oflF  by  contrast  the  distinction  of  lords  and 
ladies  playing  at  country-life  in   their  diverting 
way.     I    never   see    the   paintings   of   Fragonard 
without  a  renewed  sense  of  the  pity  of  it  —  the 
pity  of  so   much  technical   knowledge  and  skill 
frittered    away    on    confetti    and    confectionery. 
Thought    was    despised.     Emotion    was    in    bad 
taste.     The  aim  of  art  was  to  depict  the  life  of 
fashion,  glazing  the  sensuality  that  was  so  much 
a  part  of  it  with  a  glamorous  mist  —  couleur  de 
rose.    In    his    book    on    French    art,    Brownell 
pointed  out  that  although  this  period  of  Louis 
Qumze  was  in  a  sense  romantic  by  reason  of  its 
riot  of  unrestrained  caprice  and  its  sprightliness 
of  outward  manner— yet  nothing  can  be  called 
romantic    that   is   so   confined    by   the   artificial 
spirit    of   dilettantism.    The    difference    between 
Giorgione  and,  let  us  say.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
attempting  the  "grand  manner"  is  the  difference 
between  the  romance  of  personal  inspiration  and 
the  sobering  futility  of  attempting  to  be  romantic 
when  the  labouring  mind  is  merely  sentimental. 
But  the  spirit  and  substance  of  the  very  attrac- 
tive  English   painting  of  the   period   was   virile 
when    compared    to    the    effeminacy    affected    in 
France.    There   the    cleverness   of  painters   was 
inherent,   but  their  whimsical   swagger  of  style, 
their  improvising  brilliancy  of  invention,  by  no 
means  proof  of  their  having  freed  themselves  from 


■I 


■".  '1 


t'  ^ 


i  I 


) 
1.  ! 


290      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

convention.  It  was  now  the  fashion  for  painting 
to  be  capricious.  Antoine  Watteau  had  set  this 
latest  fashion. 

To  say  that  Watteau,  like  Giorgione,  supplied 
a   demand,   anticipating   the   desire   of  his   con- 
temporaries, does  not  necessarily  imply,  as  has 
been  frequently  asserted,  that  his  art  is  the  mirror 
of    his    age.     On    the    contrary— his    art,    like 
Giorgione's,  reflected  nothing  so  much  as  his  own 
personality— a   temperament   particularly   sensi- 
tive to  surrounding  influences  and  at  the  same 
time  wrapped  in  a  revery  from  which  there  was 
for  him  no  waking.     He  was  really  a  solitary,  a 
doomed   consumptive,   and   in   spite  of  the  fact 
that    his    pictures    inaugurated    an    epoch    and 
anticipated    moden.    art,    I    have    my    doubts 
whether   he   was    really   trying   to   do   anything 
more  than  just  to  pass  the  time,  like  his  fashion- 
able  patrons,    and    make   himself  meanwhile   as 
comfortable  in  his  dreams  as  it  was  possible  to  be 
in  so  sad  a  state  of  mental  rebellion  and  physical 
dissolution.     It   is  obvious  that   Pater,   Lancret, 
Boucher,  Fragonard,  and  the  rest  were  following 
his  lead,  carrying  on  what  might  reasonably  be 
called   the  School  of  Watteau.     But  what  with 
these  imitators  had  become  so  vapid  and  gaudy 
a  style  of  decoration  had  been  for  the  man  of 
genius  merely  the  most  convenient  vehicle  within 
reach  for  his  poignant  self-expression.     We  must 
of  course  regret  that  the  frail   poet-painter  did 
not  break  away  from  the  artificiality  that  almost 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE     291 
mastered    him,    that   he   did   not   overcome   the 
weakness  of  will  that  kept  his  work  so  strictly 
a  la  mode."    But  Watteau  was  too  timid  a  man 
to   run   counter  to   public   taste.    He   was   ever 
ready  to  follow  the  line  of  least  resistance.     Since 
the  dainty  and  the  chic  were  the  effects  sought 
atter  then   he   would   create   effects   dainty  and 
chic.     But  in  so  doing  he  would  express,  not  the 
mere  emptiness  of  his  subject,   when   devoid  of 
personal  inspiration,  but  the  fullness  of  his  per- 
sonal inspiration  in  spite  of  the  emptiness  of  his 
subject.     From   the   Italian   opeias  and   country 
parties  of  the  aristocracy  and  their  life  of  vain 
amusement,  he  would  evoke  a  realm  of  his  own 
fancy -a  realm  exquisite  with  shimmering  stuffs 
of  delicate  tint,  with  lovely  faces  and  mandolin 
music,  with  woodland  picnics  and  lingering  sun- 
sets,   with    garden    comedies    fantastic    without 
grossness    and    gay    amours    flirtatious    without 
guile;    a   realm   in   which  a  sick  dreamer  could 
share  in  the  essence  of  all  things  dainty  and  chic 
and    m    the    spirit    of    make-believe    forget    his 
disillusionment  and   despair.     It   is  the  hint  we 
are  sure  to  get  of  moods  that  perhaps  the  painter 
himself  never  quite   understood,    the   suggestion 
we  are  sure  to  find  that  his  Fetes  Galantes  were 
but  symbols  of  his  sad  day-dreams  that  cause  the 
pictures  of  Watteau  to  vibrate  with  more  depth 
of  feeling  than  we  would  expect  from  the  spark- 
Img    colour-melodies    he    composed.     With    this 
dreamer   of  dreams   self-expression   consisted    in 


Sfl 


I! 


t  > 

•  i 


<• 


292      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

self-concealment,  never  furtively  in  a  dark  dis- 
guise, but  always  with  a  certain  melancholy 
blitheness,  in  the  most  becoming  masquerade. 

I  find  a  fascinating  resemblance  between  the 
style  and  spirit  of  Watteau's  art  and  the  poems 
of  certain  European  and  English  writers  of  to-day. 
Some  of  the  modern  men  that  I  have  in  mind 
have  been  named  by  one  of  their  own  cult — 
Symbolists.    The   title   will   do   as   well   as   any 
other  to  suggest  the  purpose  of  this  decorative 
phase  of   impressionistic  poetry.     The   symbolist 
acknowledges  that  all  is  mystery  and  that  all  is 
rhythm;    that  we  are  all  in  a  dream  and  that 
nothing  is  certain  save  only  that  time  flies  and 
that  its  beautiful  moments  can  only  be  perpetu- 
ated though  the  various  symbols  of  art.     It  was 
the  purpose  of  the  ancient  Chinese  and  Japanese 
painters  to  make  their  images  expressive  not  of 
things  but  of  thoughts.     Whether  they  celebrated 
the   storm   in   the    mountains,   or   the   watchful, 
many-handed  Goddess  of  Mercy,  or  the  song  of  a 
little  bird  on  a  tree  —  mystery  was  the  constant 
theme.     Then  the  means  of  expression  had  also 
to  be  mysterious,  the  colour  and  form  made  to 
vanish    in    the    emotional    suggestion.    To    this 
symbolism  modern   artists  have  been   returning. 
They  realize  that  form  is  not  the  end  but  only 
the   means  — that   technique   must   be   mastered 
so  that  it  may  no  longer  be  obtrusive  and  ob- 
vious, so  that,  as  in  the  best  music,  spirit  and 
substance  may  be  one.    And  so  we  find  prose 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE     293 

that  affects  us  like  an  invisible  orchestra  and 
poetry  that  is  like  bird  song,  verse  in  which,  as 
Symons  said  of  Verlaine  "the  words  startle  us 
by  their  delicate  resemblance  to  thoughts,  by 
their  winged  flight  from  so  far,  by  their  alighting 
so  close."  With  the  same  attentive  simplicity 
with  which  he  found  words  for  sensations  of 
hearing  Verlaine  also  found  words  for  the  sensa- 
tions of  the  soul  —  the  finer  shades  of  feeling. 
And  that  is  just  the  perfection  of  decorative 
imagination  which,  in  the  dilettante  eighteenth 
century,  Watteau,  the  inspired  dilettante,  was  able 
to  achieve.  His  Fetes  Galantes  are  the  symbols  of 
his  own  moods,  and  the  philosophy  of  his  art  he 
summed  up  in  one  small  figure  —  "L'Indifferent" 
of  the  Louvre.  That  graceful  young  cavalier  is 
chiefly  charming  by  reason  of  the  lurking  ennui 
back  of  his  debonair  abandon,  the  vague  sad- 
ness disguised  in  sprightly  silver  and  rose.  And 
this  prevailing  mood  —  though  ever  so  frail  and 
fugitive  a  thing,  seems  Watteau's  most  alluring 
quality  to  our  appreciative,  unimaginative  age. 
In  many  ways  has  he  influenced  modern  art. 
Was  he  not  the  first  to  recognize  the  prismatic 
brilliancy  of  the  atmosphere  —  the  first  to  com- 
bine the  realistic  zeal  of  Rubens  in  the  study  of 
light  and  air,  with  the  romantic  ardour  of  Gior- 
gione  in  the  evocation  of  the  personal  sentiment? 
Yet  for  all  his  spirited  draughtsmanship  and 
vivacious  colour,  it  is  the  successful  symbolism  of 
Watteau    that    makes    him    most    interesting    to 


4  *\ 

,4    it 

: 


U; 


l;i 


J94  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
modernity -his  inspired  discovery  of  a  pecu- 
liarly subtle  means  of  expressing  his  peculiarly 
subtle  mood.  And  the  mood  itself  — the  mood 
of  romantic  comedy -is  one  that  we  moderns 
are  able  to  understand.     Modern  poetry  has  been 

mjch  charmed  by  it.  ,      •  ,     u 

Impressionism  in  poetry  is  concerned  with  the 
production  of  efects,  sometimes  imitative  of  other 
arts,  always  suggestive  of  intimate  emotions. 
Watteau's  spirit  has  been  translated  into  verse  by 
almost  every  poet  who  is  any  way  sensitive  to 
painting.  No  one  has  done  this  quite  so  per- 
fectly as  Verlaine  in  his  "Fetes  Galantes."  Arthur 
Symons  sympathetically  rendered  the  lyrics  into 
English.     Here  is  one  of  them. 

"The  singers  of  serenades 
Whisper  their  faded  vows 
Unto  fair,  listening  maids 
Under  the  swaying  boughs. 

Tircis,  Aminte  are  there, 
Clitandre  is  over-long. 
And  Damis  for  many  a  fair 
Tyrant  makes  many  a  song. 

And  the  mandolines  and  they 
Faintlier  breathing  swoon 
Into  the  rose  and  gray 
Ecstasy  of  the  moon.* 

Of  such  a  dulcet  sweetness  is  Watteau's  luxury 
of  secret  pain.    The  spiritual  quality  of  the  colours 


'\ih 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE    295 

we  only  dimly  apprehend,  and  the  enchanting 
forms  of  gentle  blonde  beauties  and  their  gracious 
lovers,  we  remember,  but  only  as  images  of  sleep. 
Yet  the  spirit  of  the  artist  who  loved  the  forest 
trees  and  open  spaces,  who  waited  for  the  dusk 
all  of  the  day,  and  mused  of  day  as  at  last  the 
shadows  lengthened,  something  of  this  spirit  is 
here  preserved. 

It  may  well  be  argued  that  to  find  only  melan- 
choly in  Watteau's  paintings  is  sentimentally  to 
read  into  his  art  what  we  have  read  about  his 
life  —  a  schoolgirl's  privilege.  After  all,  the  pic- 
tures are  outwardly  gay  and  most  lovers  of 
Watteau  are  drawn  to  him  not  because  he  vaguely 
oppresses  the  heart  but  because  he  lightly  re- 
freshes the  mind.  Detached,  by  reason  of  his 
illness,  from  participation  in  the  social  life  that 
he  depicted,  Watteau  was  the  better  able  to 
realize  his  dream,  deliberately  to  emphasize  the 
sheer  pictorial  charm  of  it,  and  close  his  eyes  to 
its  vulgarities  and  vices.  Curiously  —  that  is 
exactly  the  point  of  view  from  which  Mr.  Austin 
Dobson  so  delightfully  celebrates  the  glamour  of 
the  eighteeth  century.  This  modem  dilettante 
lives  in  a  little  world  of  his  own  making:  a  brilliant 
little  world  of  powdered  wigs,  of  lovely  ladies  and 
their  lords  forever  bowing  and  ogling,  at  the 
play,  or  a-Maying  in  some  old-world  garden 
redolent  of  box  and  rose.  For  the  air  is  ever  of 
May.  Oh  it  is  altogether  too  good  to  have  ever 
been  true  —  the  poet's  pretty  ballet-land.    And 


^ 


i 


s   ■ 


''  .  . 


i' 


296  THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
the  poet  knows  it.  With  Watteauesque  graces 
of  thought  and  style,  it  is  his  pleasure  to  strut 
about  with  ruffled  elegance  and  flash  of  steel; 
to  play  with  the  beautiful  Pompadour'?}  fan, 
heedless  of  the  naughty  Pompadour's  fame. 

In  teacup  timet  —  the  style  of  dreu 
fFould  suit  your  beauty,  I  confeis! 
Belinda  like  —  the  patch  you'd  wear! 
I  picture  you  with  powdered  hair, 
You'd  ntjake  a  charming  shepherdeii, 
And  I  no  doubt  could  well  express 
Sir  Plume's  complete  conceitedness, 
Could  poise  a  clouded  cane  with  care. 
In  teacup  times. 

It  is  the  very  voice  of  grown-up  make-believe  — 
the  kind  that  attitudinizes  in  fancy  dress  and 
luxuriates  in  play-acting. 

Not  so  very  long  ago  the  great  French  drama- 
tist Edmond  Rostand  wrote  a  clcvei  '  .itire  on  the 
folly  of  young  people  dream-dazed  by  all  the  bosh 
and  bombast  of  moonshiny  melodrama.  Yet  in 
the  course  of  presenting  the  idea,  there  was 
abundant  evidence  to  prove  that  the  satirist  was 
himself  a  Romanesque  revelling  in  the  actual 
stage-properties  of  romance.  In  fact,  before  the 
last  curtain,  appreciating  the  futility  of  further 
evasion,  the  poet  makes  his  little  Sylvette  trip 
to  the  footlights,  and  confide  the  sentiment  that 
lies  behind  the  satire. 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE    297 


sYLvnri 

Et  maintenant  noua  quatre 

Excutona  ce  que  fut  la  pi^  —  en  un  rondel 
Dea  coatumea  clairea  —  des  rimea  legerea 

L' Amour  dana  un  pare,  jouant  le  fluteau. 

STRArORBt 

Dea  coupa  de  soleil,  dea  rayona  lunairea 
Un  bon  apadasain  en  joyeux  manteau. 

PEKCINBT 

Un  repoa  naif  dea  pfecea  amirea 

Un  peu  de  musique  —  un  p»u  de  Watteau. 

Un  ipectade  honnete  et  qui  finit  tot 
Un  vieux  mur  fleuri  —  deux  amanta,  deux  perea. 

8YLVE1TE  {dans  ufu  reverenct) 
Dea  coatumea  clairea  •—  dea  rimea  legerea. 


As  I  was  emerging  from  the  crowd  after  hearing 
"Lcs  Romanesque"  at  the  Theatre  Franfais  last 
summer  1  heard  an  old  gentleman,  who  was 
crossing  the  street  just  behind  me,  muttering  to 
himself —  "Nos  costumes  claires,  nos  rimes  legeres 
—  ah  mais  c'etait  ravissant."    He  was  right. 

The  mellow  masquerading  spirit  then  of  Wat- 
teau's  art  has  been  the  inspiration,  not  only  of 
Paul  Verlaine  and  other  seekers  after  old  effects 
and  new  sensations,  but  has  also  exerted  the 
dominant  influence  over  such  totally  different 
phases  of  impressionism  as  the  delicate  porcelain- 
poetry  of  Austin  Dobson  and  the  playful  garden- 
comedy     with     which     Rostand     appropriated 


;fi     1     I 


nl 


V   \ 


u 


298      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

introduced  himself  as  a  romancer  to  our  appre- 
ciative,   unimaginative    age.     Watteaii's    revery 
was  always  far  away  from  the  world  of  things  as 
they  are.     Although  he  dwelt  by  preference  in  a 
paradise  of  mundane  beauty  etherealized  —  even 
the    atmosphere    of   comic    opera    delighted    his 
lighter  hours.     As  a  child  he  was  fascinated  by 
the    strolling    players    who    performed    on    great 
occasions  in  the  streets  of  Valenciennes.     Then 
and  there  perhaps  he  learned  the  aesthetic  possi- 
bilities of  the  fantastic.     Life  was  always  for  him 
a  spectacle  that  afforded  him  tender  visions  and 
complicated  emotions.    Nothing  ever  really  hap- 
pens on  the  stage  of  Watteau's  little  theatre.     But 
the  eye   finds  the  rest  it   seeks   in  those  bosky 
glades  of  russet  and  green,  and  the  lovely  colours  of 
the    players'    costumes    amply    compensates    for 
their  listlessness.     They  are  all  idly  dreaming,  the 
sweet   young   people  —  dreaming  of  their   secret 
hopes  —  watching  the  dawn  or  perhaps  the  dusk 
of  sentiment  reflected  in  each  other's  eyes.     And 
beyond  a  little  pool  deep-shadowed  by  encircling 
trees,  through  a  clearing  in  the  drowsy  wood  the 
smouldering  sunset  glows,  like  passion  stilled  at 
evening.     It  is  perhaps  the  romanticist's  highest 
function  to  symbolize  the  more  dreamful  qualities 
of  human  emotion.    He  believes  that  when  we 
escape  from   Fact  to  find  solace  in   Fantasy  — 
when  we  create  by  means  of  our  decorative  im- 
agination a  more  congenial  world  than  reality  in 
which  to  dwell,  then  our  dreams,  however  fantas- 


WATTEAU  AND  HIS  INFLUENCE    299 

tic,  our  art  whatever  its  symbol  of  expression, 
has  become  for  us  the  truest  truth.  And  so  it  is 
the  truth  of  Watteau's  sentiment,  no  less  than 
his  illusion  of  a  land  beyond  place  and  time, 
that  m^ves  us.  For  surely  there  is  nothing  more 
true  th  <n  weariness,  and  nothing  more  true  than 
the  des  e  for  beauty,  and  it  was  out  of  the 
blending  of  these  truths  that  the  romantic  comedy 
of  Watteau  was  made. 


u  i 


xvn 


i  i. , 


'I    t 
I    ■ 
I- 1 
1  i 


IMPRESSIONISM    AND    THE    ROMANTIC 

SPIRIT 

I  HAVE  been  reading  a  new  volume  of  essays 
that  certainly  ought  to  be  popular  since  it  is 
full  of  pleasant  humour  and  genial,  genuine 
intimacy  of  wholesome  comment.  The  es- 
sayist, F.  R.  Martin,  remarks  that  "it  is  such  an 
interesting  world  if  you  get  the  hang  at  all  of 
what  is  going  on  in  it.  I  do  love  to  see  it  roll 
along  and  to  try  to  puzzle  out  why  things  happen 
as  they  do."  Now  that  is  exactly  the  impres- 
sionistic point  of  view  applied  to  life  in  general 
by  the  average,  colloquial,  appreciative  human 
being.  The  impressionist  in  life  is  often  the 
lovable  type  of  man  —  you  know  him  —  who  is 
interested  in  almost  everything,  who  when  he  is 
bored  has  the  sense  to  be  interested  even  in  that 
detestable  state  of  mind.  Or  it  may  be  that  he 
is  a  specialist.  Perhaps  he  goes  home  to  indulge 
a  fad.  God  help  the  man  who  isn't  a  little  daft 
about  something  or  somebody!  Then  again  he 
may  be  one  of  the  high  strung  temperaments,  the 
eager  sort  of  youth  who,  in  Stevenson's  words, 
"dreams  of  marriage  on  summer  Sundays  when 
the  bells  ring,  or  cannot  sleep  for  the  desire  of 
living!"     Stevenson  hin^self  was  of  this  variety. 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


301 


Or,  he  may  be  like  Keats,  a  worshipper  of  the 
p  inciple  of  beauty  in  all  things,  or  like  Browning, 
whose  horizon  of  interest  was  not  bounded  by  the 
glorious  distances  of  his  own  great  art  but  by 
the  far  heights  of  music  and  of  painting.  Of 
course  the  impressionist  in  art  is,  to  a  certain 
extent,  the  detached  spectator  of  life's  spectacle, 
himself  quite  consciously  an  actor  on  the  scene, 
like  Hamlet  philosophizing  to  Horatio.  But  this 
detachment  must  not  imply  a  distaste  for  the 
point  of  view  of  others.  Unless  tnere  is  a  com- 
prehensive and  naturally  expansive  humanity  in 
an  artist,  however  true  to  himself  he  may  try  to 
be,  his  art  will  seem  none  the  less  artificial  and 
cold.  To  be  true  to  self  is  essential  of  coui>-e; 
but  to  be  openminded  and  openhearted,  these 
are  the  first  requisites. 

A  word  or  two  then  for  the  open  road  —  the 
highway  of  impressionism.  There  is  much  to  be 
said  for  the  wisdom  of  the  vagabond,  the  man 
who  doesn't  want  to  arrive  because  he  wants  to 
"keep  moving."  If  you  ask  him  where  he  is 
going  he  will  probably  answer  you,  with  a  dancing 
eye,  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  see  what  it  looks 
like  around  that  bend  in  the  lane.  When  he  has 
taken  the  turn,  the  view  will  beckon  him  up  a 
hill,  into  a  deep  dark  wood  where  the  sunset 
fires  are  flickering,  and  it  will  be  a  joy  for  him 
there  to  sniff  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  the 
pungent  scent  of  wood  smoke  rising  through  the 
dusk.    And  so  it  will  be  on  and  on  into  the  hush 


::'l 


:i: 
III 

Pi 


\  *, 


'i   ( 


302       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

of  nightfall,  with  rest  at  last  by  some         Iking 
water"  and  many  stars  to  see.     There  1    no  use 
in  bewailing  the  glamour  that  is  cast  over  the 
gipsy    trail    and    the    irresponsible    vagaries    of 
vagabonds.     If  there  is  anything  attractive  at  all 
about   us   it   is   that   we  are   living  beings  with 
personalities     very     much     like     other     animals. 
Every  now  and  then  we  need  to  escape  from  our 
domestication,  to  forget,  for  awhile,  that  we  are 
civilized   creatures   with   office   hours   and    party 
manners.    Once  upon  a  time  we  were  Nomads. 
Before  that  we  wandered  in  packs.     Now-a-days 
when  we  wander  off  the  beaten  track  we  have  at 
least  clothes  to  wear  and  consciences  to  care  for. 
And  so  let  us  return  at  times  to  our  beginnings, 
in  feeling  if  not  in  fact.    If  we  become  savages 
and   brutes  then  that   is  what   we  are,   nothing 
worse.     If  our  souls  are  right,  then  we  are  all  the 
better,   God   knows,   for  having   sensed   the   ele- 
mental, for  having  felt  something  virile  in  the 
blood  that  bounds  from  the  heart.    No  wonder 
we  have  story  book  heroes  like  Locke's  Paragot 
and    Stevenson's  Berthelini  and    Synge's   Tramp, 
in  the  "Shadow  of  the  Glen,"  for  although  the  idle 
boy's  hero  ought  to  kill  dragons  or  make  a  mint 
of  money,  it  is  right  that  the  busy  man's  hero 
should  be  a  care-free  elemental  sort  of  fellow  with 
a  roaring  love  of  life  and  a  fellowship  that  knows 
neither  pride  nor  prejudice.     What  would  become 
of  lyric  poetry  without  the  breed  of  men  who  sang 
from   sheer   overflow   of  high    spirits,    from   the 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


303 


mediaeval  Troubadours  of  Italy  and  Provence 
down  to  old  Walt  Whitman  and  our  beloved 
Tusitala  and  that  other  exquisite  artist  who  died 
young —  Richard  Hovey.  All  of  them  have  sung 
us  rousing  songs  to  hearten  us  when  we  carry  a 
pack  or  come  face  to  face  with  danger.  Some  of 
them,  too,  have  sung  us  gentier  melodies,  to 
remind  us  that  not  only  the  strength  of  man  but 
the  poignant  tenderness  of  woman  abides  at 
Nature's  heart.  With  his  body  alive  and  aglow, 
with  his  mind  alert  and  his  every  sense  awake, 
the  man  who  wanders  the  open  road  just  for  the 
joy  of  wandering  symbolizes  the  impressionistic 
point  of  view  in  art  and  in  life. 

The  impressionist  in  life  sees  and  feels  and  lives 
a  great  deal  but  he  does  not  always  know  how  to 
express  himself  about  the  variety  and  beauty  and 
strangeness  of  it  all.  If,  however,  he  is  also  an 
artist,  it  is  his  privilege  to  be  able  to  convert 
experience  into  expression,  to  see  a  thing  definitely 
and  give  it  just  the  form  and  colour  it  has  assumed 
in  his  mind,  to  think  a  thought  clearly  or  feel  a 
mood  keenly  and  search  for  the  exact  words  that 
will  convey  his  shade  of  meaning  or  tone  of  emo- 
tion. It  wouldn't  have  done  Stevenson  much 
good  to  be  a  master  of  language  if  his  unfailing 
sense  of  words  had  been  applied  to  observations 
and  reflections  unsympathetic  to  his  readers.  It 
is  because  of  the  breadth  of  his  humanity  that 
we  are  enabled  to  appreciate  the  perfection  of  his 
art.    A   page,  almost  at  random,  from  Steven- 


!  ! 
(  : 


i  ! 


-f  ( i 

■1  !; 
4  I: 
;  ii 


3 

I  il 


I 

I' 
» 


304      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

son's  essays  is  a  page  of  as  complete  a  joy  to  the 
average  right-minded  person  as  any  other  page  in 
all  literature.  It  is  the  very  talk  of  an  attractive 
man  of  the  world  talking  just  a  little  better  than 
anyone  ever  talked  before;  the  thought  of  a 
quick  thinker  with  a  quality  of  mind  so  bewitch- 
ing that  it  almost  charms  us  into  luxurious 
inattention;  the  cadenced  and  felicitous  phrases 
of  a  prose  poet  who  thrills  us  as  we  listen;  best 
of  all,  the  voice  of  a  favourite  friend  who  under- 
stands us  so  well  he  can  read  our  minds  and 
moods  and  say  just  what  we  so  much  wanted  to 
say  ourselves,  but  couldn't.  Original?  No, 
scarcely  more  so  than  the  average.  Originality  is 
far  to  seek  and  seldom  worth  its  isolation.  But 
an  artist  who  is  also  an  impressionist  is  never  at 
a  loss  to  present  an  old  eternal  thing  in  a  new 
and  beautiful  way. 

One  could  correctly  say  that  the  essential 
Stevenson  was  not  the  writer  but  the  man,  if  one 
qualified  the  statement  by  admitting  that  the 
man  was  absolutely  and  at  all  times  the  writer. 
The  often  quoted  passage  where  perhaps  he 
reveals  his  own  gallant  soul  most  clearly  and 
confidentially  is  also  one  of  the  passages  I  would 
select  to  show  the  colour  and  texture  of  his  con- 
scious and  cultivated  but  none  the  less  enchanting 
style.  "It  is  better  to  live  and  be  done  with  it 
than  to  die  daily  in  the  sick  room.  By  all  means 
begin  your  Folio  even  if  the  doctor  does  not  give 
you  a  year.     Even  if  he  hesitates  about  a  month 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT  305 

at  least  make  one  brave  push  and  see  what  can 
be  accomplished  in  a  week.  A  spirit  goes  out  of 
the  man  who  means  execution,  which  outlives  the 
most  untimely  ending.  All  who  have  meant 
good  work  with  their  whole  hearts  have  done 
good  work,  though  they  die  before  they  have  the 
time  to  sign  it.  Every  heart  that  has  beat 
strong  and  cheerfully  has  left  a  hopeful  influence 
behind  it  in  the  world  and  bettered  the  tradition 
of  mankind.  And  even  if  death  catch  people, 
like  an  open  pitfall,  and  in  mid-career,  laying  out 
vast  projects  and  planning  monstrous  founda- 
tions, flushed  with  hope,  their  mouths  full  of 
boastful  language,  yet  is  there  not  something 
brave  and  spirited  in  such  a  termination.  .  .  . 
For  surely  at  whatever  age  it  overtakes  a  man, 
this  it  is  to  die  young.  Death  has  not  been 
suffered  to  take  so  much  as  an  illusion  from  the 
heart.  In  the  hot  fit  of  life  —  a  tiptoe  on  the 
highest  point  of  being,  he  passes  at  a  bound,  on 
to  the  other  side.  The  noise  of  the  mallet  and 
chisel  is  scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets  hardly 
done  blowing,  when,  trail ijg  with  him  clouds  of 
glory,  the  happy-starred,  fuUblooded  creature 
shoots  into  the  spiritual  land."  That  is  the 
philosophy  of  the  romancer  expressed  in  the 
language  of  the  impressionist,  the  philosophy  of  a 
man  whose  zest  was  never  that  of  the  epicure, 
but  of  the  highminded  hero  of  life's  spiritual 
adventure. 
If  we  are  impressionists  in  life  Stevenson  in- 


jl 


il 


•l  1 


306      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

sisted  that  we  may  also  become  impressionists  in 
art.  It  is  only  a  question  of  whether  we  care 
enough  about  self-expression  to  devote  our  very 
lives  to  it.  There  are  many  critics  who  claim 
that  Browning  was  not  an  artist.  It  is  un- 
questionably true  that  he  cared  less  for  art  in  the 
sense  of  careful  workmanship  than  he  did  for 
his  theme,  the  analysis  and  interpretation  of 
human  character.  His  art  was  to  represent 
souls;  souls  being  made  and  marred  by  contact 
with  environment  and  experience.  Even  his  own 
point  of  view  was  too  limited  for  so  great  an 
intellect,  for  so  deep  a  sympathy.  Therefore  he 
often  chose  to  reveal  other  men's  minds  through 
their  own  self-revelations  in  drama  and  dramatic 
monologue.  But  this  psychology  would  have 
fallen  short  of  its  lyric  loveliness  and  of  its 
dramatic  power  had  it  not  been  subjected  to  a 
sensitive  art  of  metrical  impressionism,  an  art 
which  anticipated  and  inspired  many  subtleties 
and  delicacies  of  modern  verse.  No  painter  has 
adapted  his  brushwork  to  his  subject  with  more 
unerring  instinct  for  the  means  to  a  desired  effect 
than  Browning  in  his  selection  of  metres.  He 
knew  how  to  suggest  complexities  of  mood,  how 
to  imitate  varieties  of  movement,  the  gait  of 
horses  for  instance,  or  the  slow  tread  of  marchers. 
His  modulations  of  a  continued  rhythmic  utter- 
ance in  "The  Ring  and  The  Book"  deftly  mark  the 
drift  of  changing  thoughts,  the  darks  and  lights 
of   controlled    and    uncontrolled    emotions.     His 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


307 


landscape  backgrounds  give  one  actual  physical 
sensations.  If  anything  could  have  made  that 
wretched  "Serenade  at  the  Villa"  more  mortify- 
ing to  the  serenader,  it  was  the  apathy  of  the 
sullen  night. 

"  Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 
Sultrily  suspired  for  proof; 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again 
Lightning  I  where  it  broke  the  roof 
Blood-like,  a  few  drops  of  rain." 

But  quickly  I  turn  for  relief  to  "Love  among 
the  Ruins"  where  the  impressionism  is  less  obvi- 
ously clever  but  none  the  less  successful  and  oh, 
so  charming!  There  I  bask  in  the  late  light  that 
mellows  wide  historic  distances.  And  I  listen 
to  the  tinkle  of  sheep  bells.  And  I  try  to  think 
of  the  splendours  of  the  vanished  city  but  I  am 
human 

"And  I  know  while  thus  the  quiet  coloured  eve 
Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 
In  such  peace. 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  where  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal 
When  the  King  looked  —  where  she  looks  now 
Breathless,  dumb. 

Till  I  come." 


!  1 


;  S 


^  'I 
III 


's\ 


I! 


308      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Even  if  it  were  but  a  sentiment ;  even  if  one  had 
to  live  such  an  hour  to  believe  such  a  truth,  who 
would  dare  to  deny  that 

"With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest 
Love  is  best." 

But  here  the  impressionism  of  metre  is  used  for 
emotional  rather  than  for  intellectual  effect.  In 
other  poems  the  past  is  not  dismissed  so  lightly 
but  made  to  live  again  with  a  dramatic  synthesis 
that  is  nothing  short  of  miracle.  Listening  to  a 
Toccata  of  Galuppi's  the  poet  sees  a  vision  of  the 
dazzling  world  of  eighteenth-century  Venice,  friv- 
olous and  yet  fascinating  as  he  apprehends  it  in  the 
cold  music  which  must  have  sobered  for  a  mo- 
ment all  who  listened  to  its  coldness. 

"  Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was  warm 

in  May? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  midday 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow 

Do  you  say? 

Well  and  it  was  graceful  of  them,  they'd  break  talk  off  and 

afford  — 
She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he  to  finger  on  his  sword 
When  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord." 

But  this  poem  is  only  an  improvisation  —  a 
fanciful  modern  mood  for  pleasantly  visualizing 
the  past.  Its  refined  and  sparkling  delicacy  of 
touch  recalls  the  art  of  Guardi.     It   is  a  com- 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


309 


mentary  upon  the  times,  not  a  re-incarnation. 
No  mere  metrical  impressionism  can  reconstruct 
the  soul  of  a  dead  century,  can  breathe  its 
breath,  and  live  its  life  and  think  its  thought,  as 
the  Past  is  passionate  true  in  such  poems  as  "My 
Last  Mistress" — "Pictor  Ignotus" — Fra  Lippo 
Lippi"— "Andrea  del  Sarto"— "The  Bishop 
Orders  his  Tomb"  —  "The  Confessional"  and 
"The  Laboratory."  Beholding  them  in  their  mo- 
ments of  self-revelation  Browning  created  por- 
traits which  contain  complicated  personalities; 
what  these  men  and  women  really  were  in  rela- 
tion to  their  age  and  environment,  what  they 
might  have  been  had  things  been  otherwise, 
the  springs  of  character  from  which  resulted  the 
destiny  of  events,  the  seeds  of  thought  from  which 
grew  up  the  beautiful  or  poisonous  flowers  of  their 
inner  lives. 

The  luxurious  art  patron  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance stands  among  his  guests,  vividly  revealed, 
in  "My  Last  Duchess."  In  calling  attention  to  his 
treasures  he  stops  in  front  of  the  portrait  of  his 
young  wife,  and  smiling  sumptuously,  he  relates 
how  it  was  she  brought  about  her  own  fate. 

"She  had 
A  heart,  how  shall  I  say?  too  soon  made  glad, 
Too  easily  impressed.     She  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one!     My  favour  at  her  breast. 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 


\  \ 


I-  » 


310      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush  at  least.     She  thanked  nten,  goodl  but  thanked 

Somehow,  I  know  not  how,  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine  hundred  years'  old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.  .  .  . 

Oh,  Sir,  she  smiled  no  doubt 
Whene'er  I  passed  her  —  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew.     I  gave  commands 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she  stands 
As  if  alive.     Will 't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 
The  company  below.     Nay,  nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down.  Sir.     Notice  Neptune  though 
Taming  a  sea  horse  —  thought  a  rarity 
Which  Qaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me." 


Could  anything  be  more  true?  The  mimetic 
quality  is  astounding.  And  the  characters  are 
life  itself;  the  jealousy  of  the  tyrant,  a  beast  of 
all  his  culture,  and  the  young,  young  wife  whose 
smiles  were  broadcast.  Only  Shakespeare  and 
that  impressionistic  romancer  George  Meredith 
equalled  Browning  in  the  poetic  portraiture  of 
women. 

Not  only  was  Browning  the  poet  of  men's 
moments  of  self-revelation,  but  of  that  "psycho- 
logical moment"  which  has  now  passed  into  the 
currency  of  our  common  speech.  As  Walter 
Pater  put  it,  "the  poetry  of  Browning  is  pre- 
eminently the  poetry  of  situations,"  the  poetry 
of  critical  periods  when  a  soul  is  put  suddenly 
to  the  test. 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT  311 

"I  count  life  juit  the  ituflT 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on, 
Educe  the  man." 

But    these    trials    are    not    brought    about    with 
entangling    complications    involving    action    but 
with  the  inner  struggles  of  the  soul  that  precede 
and  at  the  critical  moments  precipitate  all  conse- 
quent   actions.     Browning   was    too    staunch    an 
optimist  and  too  virile  a  moralist  to  rant  against 
Destiny    and    overpowering    circumstance.     Fate 
can  do  no  more  than  test  us.    Our  ordeal  comes 
not   without   but   within.     The   spiritual   life  in- 
terested  Browning;    not  abstract  Man's  relation 
to  the  other  world  but  the  capacity  or  incapacity 
of  men  to  deal  with  the  problems  and  passions  of 
this  world,  here  and  now,  to  rise  or  fall,  succeed 
or  fail,  not  according  to  the  world's  standards  of 
success  and  failure,   but   measured   only  by  the 
degree  of  strength  and  purity  in  their  innermost 
thoughts   and  purposes.      Consequently  the  poet 
of  this  inner  life  was  the  poet  not  only  of  situa- 
tions, but  of  situations  involving  relationships  with 
others,  the  poet  of  love,  of  friendship,  of  jealousy, 
of  hate,  of  cold  indifference,  of  sad  misunderstand- 
ing, of  imperfect  sympathies.     He  could  sing,  as 
well  as  any  other,  the  simpler  feelings,  but  his  pecu- 
liar quality  of  intellect  liked  to  fathom  deeper  and 
darker  springs  of  emotion;  the  moods  for  instance 
of  a  constant  wife  when  she  feels  her  husband's 
gradual  estrangement,  her  outcry  of  primitive  feel- 
ing when  she  consents  with  a  little  struggle  to 


ft '' 


^^^'^  I 


■'i        - 1 

I 
.   1 1 


312       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

submerge  her  individuality  in  her  husband's,  to  be 
his  woman,  body  and  soul.  In  that  exquisitely 
subtle  poem  "Two  in  the  Campagna"  it  is  the 
husband  who  speaks.  He  loves  her,  his  mate, 
but  never  quite  understands  her,  never  quite 
attains  to  that  spiritual  union  which  alone  can 
make  lovers  happy.  It  is  the  pity  of  it,  this 
world  of  distance,  our  ineffectual  desires  to  grasp 
elusive  thought,  to  perpetuate  moments  of  feel- 
ing, to  realize  our  ideals,  to  be  true  to  the  best 
in  ourselves  and  others  that  makes  this  life  so 

sad  with 

"  Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn." 
Love,  however,  once  attained,  means  strength  for 
the  day's  need.  And  by  love  I  mean  that  spirit 
of  love  which,  incarnate  in  Browning's  "Pippa" 
passes  singing  on  its  way  through  the  world, 
spreading,  all  unconsciously,  its  goodness  and 
happiness  and  vital  hope.  This  is  the  secret  of 
the  impressionistic  point  of  view.  We  are  social 
creatures,  dependent  upon  each  other.  No  mat- 
ter how  original,  how  self-sufficient,  how  selfish, 
what  other  people  have  made  us,  that  we  are, 
and  that  in  our  turn  we  shall  make  other  people. 
For  personalities  are  inevitably  acting  and  react- 
ing upon  each  other,  ideas  growing  out  of  ideas, 
and  impressions  born  constantly  from  impres- 
sions. 

In  spite  of  his  absorption  in  crucial  situations 
and  spiritual  relationships  Browning  was  seldom 


}  1 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT  313 

just  the  impersonal  spectator.     Generally  he  had 
something    definite    to    say.     From    his    selected 
observations    of    character    and    conduct    under 
stress  of  selected  circumstances,  his  own  philoso- 
phy  was   sure   to   emerge   seeking   through   the 
evidence  of  each  individual  case  to  approach  the 
universal  truth.     He  was  the  poet  of  music,  of 
pamtmg,    of    science,    of    Paganism,    Classicism, 
Christianity,  and  then  of  nearly  every  important 
human  emotion.     But  it  is  perhaps  as  the  poet  of 
love  that   he   seems   most   soul   searching,   most 
mcomparable.    It    was    his    passionate    concern 
that  men  and  women  should  not  miss  this  crown- 
ing opportunity  of  their  lives.    Over  and  over 
again  he  pictured  the  situation  of  a  love  that 
niight  have  been,  but  failed  to  be,  through  some 
shy  resistance  or  doubt  or  fear  or  worldly  pru- 
dence at  the  critical  stage  of  the  relation  and  two 
lives  ruined  in  consequence.     In  such  poems  as 
"By  the  Fireside"  he  gives  us  the  reverse,  the 
perfect  joy  resulting  from  the  insight  and  strength 
which  captures  love  at  the  psychological  moment 
and  fuses  spirit  and  sense  in  harmony  forever. 

"Oh  the  little  more  and  how  much  it  is 
And  the  little  less  and  what  worlds  away! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss 
Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this! 

Had  she  willed  it  —  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her, 


i, ;   ' 


u 


^^'^ 


314      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

Friends  —  iovers  that  might  have  been. 
But  a  moment  after  and  hands  unseen 
Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast, 
We  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life.     We  were  mixed  at  last 
In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen." 

That  is  the  romance  of  Browning's  own  life 
and  it  is  also  the  soul  of  his  philosophy.  Love  is 
the  goal  —  and  if  it  is  true  and  deep,  whether  or 
not  it  attains  its  object  in  this  life,  it  is  pure  gain 
spiritually.  Evelyn  Hope  dies  before  she  knows 
how  wonderfully  a  man  loves  her.  She  was  too 
young  to  know.  But  when  she  awakens  she  will 
find  the  leaf  he  has  given  her  for  remembrance  — 
and  then  she  will  understand.  "The  Last  Ride 
Together"  is  a  song  of  faith.  Had  the  moment 
indeed  been  made  eternal,  had  she  loved  him, 
had  it  not  been  the  last  ride,  then  what  would 
the  future  have  held  in  reserve? 

"Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 
Now  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride." 

This  exultation  of  spirit  and  actual  joy  in  the 
incompleteness  of  success  on  earth  is  applied  not 
only  to  young  love  but  to  all  our  finer  aspirations 
and  endeavors,  to  whatever  has  made  our  exist- 
ence worthy  of  reward.  Such  optimism  is  really 
the  most  romantic  spirit  ever  expressed  in  litera- 
ture, disregarding,  as  it  does,  every  other  con- 
sideration save  only  the  instinctive  faith  that 
"The  All  Great  is  the  All  Loving  too" 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT  315 

and  all  shall  be  well  with  us  sooner  or  later. 
Like  all  things  romantic  it  can  be  laughed  to 
scorn.  It  is  nothing  but  the  spirit  of  romantic 
comedy,  the  view  of  life  as  spiritual  adventure, 
applied  with  a  vigorous,  full-blooded  enjoyment 
to  life's  most  sacred  intimacies. 

In  this  last  paper  I  have  tried  to  forge  the 
connecting  link  between  the  apparently  separate 
themes    of   this    book— between    Impressionism 
and   The   Decorative   Imagination,   between   the 
artist  who  is  striving  for  unity  of  effect  and  the 
artist  who  produces  that  effect,  not  so  much  for 
its  own  sake,  as  for  the  sake  of  a  perhaps  subcon- 
scious yet  devoutly  cherished  philosophy  of  life. 
All  the  isms  of  representative  art  may  be  included 
under  thr  title  Impressionism.    Alike  the  Realists, 
the  Optical  Illusionists,  the  Symbolists,  the  Har- 
nionists  and  the  Romanticists  have  been  Impres- 
sionists or  they  have  been  failures.     In  literature 
we  have  seen  that  the  impressionistic  point  of 
view  is  not  the  only  possible  philosophy,  as  it  is 
with    painters.     Nevertheless    the    lyrical    poets, 
the   dramatists,    the    dramatic   poets,   the   short 
story   writers,   and   the   subjective   critics,   were 
also  failures   if  they  did   not   desire  to  express 
single  impressions,  or  were  unable  to  express  them 
synthetically.     It   is   pitiful   the  wealth  of  good 
working  material,  of  clever  men,  able-bodied  men, 
wasted  in  the  name  of  art,  when  there  was  no 
art   in   them!    If  we   could   only   induce   a   few 
million  misguided  mortals  to  give  up  art,  at  least 


i 


.  » 
I    : 


\    \ 


pi   i. 


! 


V 


r 


•  1' 


316      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
until  they  have  begun  to  understand  the  spirit 
of  art,  then  we  would  have  fewer  bad  books,  and 
plays  and  buildings  and  statues  and  pictures,  and 
a  public  better  able  to  discriminate  between  art 
and  artifice.     But  of  all  the  artists  who  do  sue 
ceed  in  their  function  of  impressionism,  the  ones 
who  have,  it  seems  to  me,  the  largest  conception 
of  their  work,  the  farthest  vision  of  their  hope, 
are  the  men  who  use  the  personal  expression  of 
art,  not  as  an  end  in  itself,  but  as  a  means    to 
enrich  and  ennoble  life  with  spiritual  stimulus, 
orTt  least  to  sensuously  appeal  to  the  imagmation 
and  the  emotions.     Browning  was  such  an  Im- 
pressionist  and  I  have  lingered  over  his  art  m 
this   discussion  because   he   so   successfully   em- 
ployed    his    impressionistic    point    of   view    and 
LLd  of  expression  in  the  cause  of  his  own 
"dream  of  a  world."    It  is  a  world  m  which  his 
Men  and  Women  are  ^n  life's  stage,  Performmg 
its  romantic  comedy,  missing  or  graspmg  the  r 
opportunities,   strengthening  o^  T:"^'"'''^'„" 
spiritual   forces  in  the  fight  with   circumstance 
realizing  in  the  richer  moments  of  «penence  that 
it  is  a  glorious  thing  to  live  fearlessly  and  up- 
rightly,  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  to  labour  onward 
and  u  ward,  aspiring  to  the  attainment  o^^^^^^^^^^^ 
divine  fulfillment,  when,  at  the  last,  their  ideals 
shall  be  realized,  and  all  their  souls  made  perfect^ 
Because  the  thought  of  Browning  was  often 
difficult,   sometimes  eccentric,   and  at   all  times 
boldly  individual,  it  is  commonly  supposed  that 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT  317 

he  is  the  poet  of  the  intellectual  few,  not  of  the 
irresistible  many.    This  is  a  great  mistake.     His 
philosophy    is   exceptional   only   because   of   the 
exceptional  inspiration  which  conveys  its  courage- 
ous but  familiar  optimism.    It  is  a  philosophy  not 
for  the  recluse  and  the  dreamer  but  for  the  man 
who  loves  life  and  lives  it  to  the  full,  taking  and 
giving  blows  in  the  thick  of  battle,  "falling  to 
rise    again,"    "baffled    to   fight    better,"    "never 
doubting  clouds  will  break."     It  is  the  philosophy 
of   our    unspoken    idealism,    the    staunch    spirit 
which  serves  us  when  we  are   facing  odds  with 
our  backs  to  the  wall,  which  makes  us  calm  with 
hope  even  when  our  friends  are  pitying  us,  which 
enables  us  to  fight  on  even  after  hope  is  dead, 
trusting  in  some  ultimate  justice,  in  some  unfail- 
ing love.    One  of  the  most  powerful  creations  of 
impressionistic  art,  inspired  directly  by  this  ag- 
gressive and   yet   debonaire   optimism    is    Rem- 
brandt's large  portrait  of  himself,  in  his  old  age 
and  poverty,  now  the  chief  treasure  of  the  Frick 
Collection.    All  of  his  life  Rembrandt  had  been 
the    Impressionist,    with    his    zest    for    life,    his 
eagerness  for  self-expression,  his  knowing  eye  for 
single  effects.     But  back  of  all  that  he  had  also 
been  the  Romanticist,  with  his  deliberate  purpose 
to  express  only  richness  of  effect,  only  depths  of 
observation,  only  the  beauty  or  the  mystery  of 
truth.     His  best  portraits,  landscapes  and  genre 
studies,  are  no  more  accurately  true  to  his  own 
contemporary  Holland  than  his  biblical  pictures 


t   I 

■I 


s   ' 


m 

Ir 


\ 

i 


318       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
are  true  to  the  words  of  scripture  and  the  facts 
of  ancient  history.     It  was  universal  humanity 
he  painted,  and  Beauty  that  knows  neither  time 
nor   place.    Whenever   there   was   a   story  or   a 
scene  from  the  bible  which  appealed  to  his  imagi- 
nation,   to    his    keen    sense    of    mysticism    and 
Oriental  glamour,  he  saw  his  pictorial  opportunity. 
With  Eastern  finery  and  armour,  which  he  found 
in  the  shops  of  sea-faring  Amsterdam,  and  with 
the  available  Jews  of  the  neighbourhood  as  his 
models,  he  proceeded  to  paint  those  golden  visions 
in  which  a  beam  of  light,  traversing  a  vaulted 
vastness  of  templed  gloom,  seemed  to  obliterate 
colour  and  form  and  yet  reveal  a  sensuous  magnifi- 
cence greater  than  the  world's  wealth  has  zest 
enough  to  afford.    Alas  for  the  artist !  his  taste  for 
collecting  and  for  living  in  sumptuous  surround- 
ings brought  on  his  day  of  reckoning.     First  of 
all  he  lost  his  Saskia,  the  young  wife  he  loved  so, 
the  Saskia  who  sits  laughing  on  his  knee  in  the 
popular  picture.    Then  other  reverses  came.     He 
painted  more  and  more  just  to  please  himself, 
and   his   orders   became   fewer.     But   his   genius 
ripened  in  his  hour  of  trial.     He  told  now  the 
story  of  the  New  Testament  in  a  new  way,  not 
the  splendour  of  its  setting  but  the  significance  of 
its  story,  the  story  of  redemption  through  love, 
of  sympathy  for  all.    The  very  souls  of  men  and 
women  look  out  from  the  iyes  of  his  portraits  and 
in  his  own  self-studies  we  are  enabled  to  share 
the  deepest  thoughts  of  this  man,  whose  pride 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


319 


was  not  broken  by  failure,  whose  spirit  conquered 
circumstance.  In  the  Frick  portrait  he  sits  as 
on  a  throne,  old,  sick,  shabby,  yet  triumphant. 
Fate  may  do  its  worst.  He  defies  it.  Some  day 
men  will  know  that  in  his  chosen  way  no  man 
ever  did  better.  Conscious  of  his  deathless  genius 
—  believing  in  some  ultimate  justice,  in  some 
unfailing  love,  his  eyes  bear  a  challenge.  After 
death — judgment?    Let  it  come. 

It  is  a  curious  truth  known  to  all  art  lovers, 
that   when   an   impressionistic   style   expresses   a 
romantic  spirit  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  one 
quality  from  the  other.     Rembrandt's  magic  of 
arbitrary   light   and   shade   is   of  course   exactly 
what  we  mean  when  we  speak  of  his  impression- 
ism, in  other  words  his  art  of  producing  desired 
effects,  but  it  is  also  exactly  what  we  mean  when 
we  speak  of  the  romance  of  his  personal  vision. 
He  employed  this  magic  to  reveal  the  secret  of  a 
troubled  soul,  or  the  inner  beauty  of  a  landscape, 
or  the  richness  of  a  dream  of  colour.    Colour  modu- 
lated by  light  and  shade,  this  was  the  technique 
which  interpreted  his  moods.     Nature  or  human 
nature,  darkening  or  lightening  in  moments  of 
elemental  exposure,  this  was  the  thought  which 
dominated    his    soul.     It    is    impossible    then   to 
separate  the  man  from  the  artist.    When  Steven- 
son said  that  the  particular  triumph  of  the  artist 
is  "not  simply  to  convince  but  to  enchant,"  he 
meant   that   an   impressionist   should   also   be   a 
romanticist.     It  is  of  course  a  matter  of  opinion 


\  ' 


320      THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 
—  a  question  of  taste.     Of  course  conviction  is 
more  indispensable  to  enchantment  than  enchant- 
ment to  conviction.     It  is  only  by  reason  of  his 
perfect  genius  that  Corot  enchants  us  with  land- 
scapes which  are,  after  all,  conventional  in  com- 
position, neither  altogether  fanciful  nor  altogether 
real,  and  of  a  sameness  in  tone,  sentiment  and 
subject.     Colour  chords  in  silver  and  dark  green, 
the  harmony  of  wind-stirred  leaves  and  glistening 
dew,  the  essence  of  all  that  is  delicious  in  misty 
dawns  and  twilight   in  the  woods,  willows  that 
cast  their  shade  where  the  ripples  play  along  the 
still  waters  of  a  little  lake,  a  distant  villa  luminous 
with  sunset,  a  shepherd  piping  to  the  late  linger- 
ing afternoon;   these  are  the  only  general  impres- 
sions that  the  name  of  Corot  conjures  up.     But 
they  are  impressions  that  the  world  cannot  do 
without.     No  wonder    those    little    dream-people 
dance     and     frolic     in     the    glade,     mad    with 
the    witchery    of    it    all.     For    it    is    Fairyland, 
the    Fairyland,  of  an  enchanter  whose  enchant- 
ment    was     impressionism,     the     Fairyland     of 
the   good    old    Corot    whose   jovial    pipe-dreams 
transfigured     Reality    and    whose    incomparable 
eyesight   realized   Romance.     Once  more  I  must 
quote    Stevenson,    "Mirth,    lyric    mirth,    and    a 
vivacious   Classical   contentment,   these   qualities 
are  of  the  very  essence  of  the  better  kind  of  art." 
But  perhaps  the  most  interesting  thing  about 
a  Corot  landscape  is  that  it  makes  us  feel  that 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  is  evanescent  and  about 


r 


;  ♦      , 


u 


»  V 


I 


i-i 


ROMANTIC  SPIRIT 


321 


to  disappear.  In  another  moment  all  will  be 
changed.  The  hush  will  be  broken.  The  fairy 
footfalls  will  cease.  The  light  will  fade  away,  or 
grow,  and  lose  its  tenderness.  That  exquisite 
colour  in  the  sky,  it  cannot  linger.  For  all  things 
pass,  the  fairies  of  our  dreams,  our  youth  itself, 
and  music,  and  sunsets,  and  those  twilights  in 
the  woods  when  our  wistful  souls  are  at  rest. 
It  is  not  Death  we  think  of  but  simply  Change, 
like  sleeping  and  waking.  We  are  happy  in 
Corot's  Borderland,  but  happy  with  the  vague 
unrest,  the  vain  regret  we  feel  in  listening  to 
music.  Spirit  and  sense  are  at  one,  but  only  for 
moments.  Art  marvellously  perpetuates  these 
moments,  but  art  itself  must  change.  Why  then 
the  spirit  of  romantic  comedy  which  Corot  sym- 
bolized with  wood  nymphs  dancing  in  the  dawn, 
or  the  shepherd  piping  to  the  late  lingering  after- 
noon? It  is  the  indomitable  instinct  of  buoyant 
faith,  smoking  and  singing  at  its  work,  the  same 
faith  which  made  Abt  Vogler  sure  that  his  palace 
of  music  would  abide. 


I    H 


"All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist. 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself.     No  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 
When  Eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard. 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky  — 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  —  by  the  lover  and  the  bard- 
Enough  that  he  heard  it  once:  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by." 


»i 


322       THE  ENCHANTMENT  OF  ART 

It  is  exactly  because  of  life's  pitiless  ciiance  and 
change,  its  heart-breaking  incompleteness  of  at- 
tainment here  and  now,  that  we  may  be  sure, 
with  "lyric  mirth  and  vivacious  classical  content- 
ment" that  the  end  of  our  fugitive  impressions, 
the  end  of  our  spiritual  adventure,  is  not  yet. 


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